


Whoever tells the story tells the tale - the scenes unseen between...as told by others

by fantasticalwalker



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 16:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 66,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticalwalker/pseuds/fantasticalwalker
Summary: A series of scenes between what is seen in the episodes of S2 through S3  s told by others....





	1. The kindness of friends.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell how the truth may be;  
> I say the tale as 'twas said to me (Sir Walter Scott)

1710

His hands were large, strong, calloused with a lifetime of hard labor, blood vessels blue and prominent like tiny tributaries coursing down his bony forearm to spread across the delta of his hand and fingers. It was difficult to judge his age – at some time in his life – he had aged enough and had simply stopped. No more hair to turn gray, or teeth to lose or wrinkles to form, or aged joints to grow more painful or stiff. But he had kept on living and was well advanced in years,

‘Who did you say?’ the old man asked again, squinting up at the figure in front of him. He motioned to a rickety wooden chair next to the table. ‘Sitting would help me considerably,’ he remarked sourly. The man, or was it a boy, had been standing in front of him asking questions.

He sat, and he wasn’t a boy, but not quite a man either. Smooth cheeks and eyes the color of fine whiskey, a chin not quite square – unfortunate for a man. Dark hair cut to swing below the shoulders. He smiled at the old man, ‘thank you Monsieur.’ Polite too.

‘I am interested in the stories told about the Musketeers or rather those who told the stories about the Musketeers – the storytellers,’ the young man said. He looked hopefully at the old man.

‘Storytellers!’ snorted the old man. ‘Everyone tells stories of the Musketeers- especially those who never had an occasion to know them at all!’ he laughed sarcastically.

‘Yes!’ the young man leaned forward, ‘that is exactly what I mean. Whoever tells the story shapes the tale. It is that I wish to know- to know how a man’s character is altered by those who tell the tale.’ He looked eagerly at the old man who regarded him with interested eyes.

‘Is there someone you seek to know better?’ he asked the young man who suddenly looked down, biting his lower lip – astonished at the old man’s perceptiveness. He looked up to find piercing blue eyes fixed intently on his.

‘Yes,’ said the young man. ‘I am interested in the events at the time Monsieur Rochfort was Minister and after - the war years and the Fronde.’ He hesitated and then plunged forward.

‘I am interested in a man known as Lucien Grimaud.’ 

The old man leaned back in his chair and stared down the dusty cobbled street. His blue eyes dimmed. ‘Lucien,’ he said softly. ‘What did you wish to know of Lucien?’

‘Did you know him?’ The young man sucked in his breath eagerly, his golden eyes gleaming in excitement. The old man seemed not to have heard him – he was absorbed in his reverie. He raised his brow and turned to the young man.

‘Yes, I knew him – although I was very young at the time.’

‘The stories about him? You are familiar with what is told?’ the young man was wide-eyed, pulling out a folder with sheaves of paper to write on. Anticipation tinged his voice.

Lucien Grimaud thought the old man. He had known him well – had served him from the time Lucien had taken him in, an orphan - starving and homeless. He had put him to work in his stables and he had stayed in his employ in variable jobs until the time of Lucien’s presumed death. Years of service for a man that aroused intense curiosity and sparked many tales – most like fables invented by those whose interest was improving their own tale at the expense of another. Almost everyone knew Lucien Grimaud’s name. But there were few who knew the man. Over the years, he had listened to many stories about Lucien and the Musketeers. Stories that were altered – truths, actualities and lessons shifting in the changing light of the story teller – major notes turning minor, depths becoming shallow. 

‘If you want to know the man, listen to the stories from the common folk – the minor characters – they knew him in many places. Look for the story behind the tall tale and see what is between…’

The old man leaned forward to peer into the young man's face - startled, he pulled back slightly - but did not avert his gaze. The old man studied him for a moment and then leaned back smiling.

'You have his eyes....'

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

1630

He was dressed, leaning over the fire, hand resting on the mantle. He had placed more wood on the fire to warm the room. He straightened and looked toward the bed and the sleeping figure. He would not wake her. He walked to the bed, looking down at her. She was sleeping on her back, her fair hair streaming across the pillows, hands folded piously across her stomach. He pulled the covers up around her and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. She did not stir.

He gathered up his cloak and hat and walked quietly from the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The maid in the hallway, holding his cloak, hat and gloves, was waiting for him and his instructions. ‘Have the carriage available when she is ready,’ he said. She nodded, and he walked down the stairs quickly and turned to exit the house through the kitchens.

A man, wearing a long riding coat and a broad brimmed hat that obscured the features of his face, was waiting for him, standing by the fire, drinking hot tea from a delicate china cup. At the sound of his master’s step, he placed the cup on the table that occupied the center of the kitchen and walked from the door pulling his gloves on as he left. He turned and waited. 

Lucien Grimaud stepped through the door into the cold darkness of early morning, before the sky began it’s morning fade from black to shades of blue, until the sun claimed the new day. He pulled on warm fur lined gloves over his large long fingered calloused hands. He stood for a moment breathing in the crisp cold air, listening to the stillness of the night. Paris was never completely silent. There was always someone in the street, women still plying their services, a carriage with a lady of the night returning home from a customer, a tavern open and patrons stumbling from it’s doors into the night or early dawn, bakeries beginning their daily work, honest men and women hurrying through the streets, or less honest men and women slinking after them.

He turned and walked from the yard, around the house to the street, walking purposefully. He passed others in the street not acknowledging anyone. Occasionally, a woman emerged in the doorway of her secret lair where men paid for her ministrations. He glanced at them, sometimes altering his path to pass by them, noticing at a fresh bruise or signs of sickness. He would press a coin into her hand, saying softly, ‘that’s enough for tonight.’ 

The man following behind him would stop for details. Grimaud knew that men beat women to feel powerful and achieve full sexual arousal. There was little he could do about that and whores knew the risks. The madams who paid him for use of his properties did not expect him to prevent every incident. But if he could send a message, he would do so.

He continued his walk until he came to a small tavern attached to an inn and circled around to the alley way in the rear of the building. Lights flickered through the window. She was awake and preparing food in the kitchens. He gave a soft knock at the door and pushed it open.

The woman at the table was rolling out dough on a large square table set in the center of the room. It allowed her to walk around it as she worked. Metal trays, spread with butter waited for her to place her products for baking. Bowls of jam, honey, sugar, almond paste, nuts were set neatly in the center of the table. The smell of baking bread was delicious.

‘I was thinking you might not be coming,’ she said to him without turning around. The dough needed her attention right now. She continued her actions, pressing, pushing, turning for a few more minutes and then dumped the ball of dough into a bowl, covering it with a cloth and setting it near the fire. It would rise and be ready for rolling out in a few hours. She wiped her hands, turning around, smiling.

He crossed the floor to her, taking her arm and leaning forward to kiss her cheek, leading her to a chair near the fire and setting her down, turning back to the brazier to pour tea into two cups. ‘Try the raspberry tarts,’ she suggested. She accepted the cup of hot tea he pressed into her hands and waited for him to sit opposite her. She sipped her tea.

He bit into the warm pastry, making small humming sounds in his throat. ‘Not bad,’ he kidded her. She swatted at his knees, laughing. ‘Try not to eat all of them.’ His mouth was full of pastry, and after swallowing he said, ‘I make no commitments to that,’ while reaching for another one.

They sat for a while in companionable silence while he ate and they both drank tea. Finally, he finished and said, ‘I left a few.’ She grinned at him, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t think you left any,’ she scolded, but smiled. ‘You are correct, my lady,’ he confessed.

He studied her for a moment. She had a rosy flush to her cheeks, and her blue eyes shone with happiness. ‘You look well,’ he remarked. ‘And happy. Is that for me or another?’ He was teasing her. He knew well enough that there was a suitor and she hoped to marry soon. They were saving money for a wedding and to start a new household together.  


She gave a private smile, the kind women do when they are sharing their time and intimate thoughts, and perhaps other intimacies with a man. He knew the man, an honest hardworking dock worker who had been in his employ for some time. The man had lost his wife and son to cholera some years before and had left his village home too overcome with grief to stay. When her brother Phillip had gone into the army, she had needed help in the tavern and inn, and he had suggested Gerard to her. The work suited the man and helping her gave him new purpose. It wasn’t long before he was hoping for more, and the fact that she was blind made no difference to him. Lucien was happy for her and relieved that her future would be secure. Of course, if he turned to be wrong about Gerard, then he would deal with that too.

‘And what about you?’ she asked him. ‘Did your lady come to you in your dreams last night?’ She asked him the same question almost every time he came here. She knew he nursed a private dream of finding the girl that had been lost to him many years ago. She was the only person he had ever spoken to about this girl. She was the only person he had ever spoken to about his mother. He wondered if her blindness conferred upon her a shroud of safety with his secrets.

She never talked to him in practicalities about his hope for the girl’s return. He had still been a boy when she was taken away by her family. He did not know where she had gone, nor did he know if she was alive. But he thought if she were dead, he would know. The slender invisible thread that had bound them together as children, still thrummed within him. He felt it extending across lands, oceans, plains, mountains, wherever it was that she had gone, deep into her heart as it was in his. Perhaps only a blind woman would hear the truth of this in his voice.

He stood up. It was almost dawn and time for him to go. He leaned over her and kissed her cheek again. ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Tomorrow,’ he agreed.


	2. An unordinary man

‘Watch your feet Lucien!’ Gatien yelled at him. ‘Do you think your enemies are going to wait to fight with you on level ground with nothing to stumble over?’

He was trying to watch his feet. And, he was trying not to stumble. And, he was trying to watch the soldier chasing him, who was trying to kill him with his sword - or rather, pretending to try to kill him. They were using training swords. Gatien didn’t trust Lucien’s level of experience to not result in injury to either one of them.

‘Face me dammit,’ barked his teacher. ‘You cannot wait for the ballroom floor to slide around on like the King’s dance master in a swordfight!’

They were both breathless from the fight. But Gatien knew how to battle when out of breath and out of strength. He blocked the young man’s attempt to jump away from him, swinging the wooden sword within a hair’s breadth of his head. Lucien ducked swiftly and did a quick roll, landing on his feet and thrusting the wooden sword toward the big man’s chest. Gatien blocked it easily and hard, knocking it from Lucien’s hands. Lucien froze.

‘What? No strategy for retrieving the sword? Ready to die so soon?’ the soldier advanced on him.

He got his feet under him, hesitated long enough for the big man to be in mid-stride and raising the sword and then he hurled himself forward, driving his head into the man’s mid-section. It was like hitting a wall. Pain exploded in his head and neck.

Gatien grunted at the unexpected assault on his gut – but he did not go down. He bent over, grabbed his attacker by his waist, picked him up upside down and tossed him into the grass, as though he were a sack of grain inconveniently left in his pathway. He landed on his back, senseless, the breath knocked out of him. His hands scrabbled at the ground and one hand closed on the sword. He rolled quickly and held it up to Gatien’s chest as the big man leaned over him to deliver the fatal blow. 

‘You’re dead!’ he gasped, exhausted and dropped the sword, falling onto his back, gulping air and fighting nausea. 

Suddenly he was yanked off the ground and was staring up at the sky, flying through the air, dropping and sinking into deep cold water. He fought his way to the surface, spewing water from his mouth, shaking his head to clear his vision. Gatien was grinning at him broadly from the shore.

‘And you are drowned!’ called the Musketeer. The big man dropped to sit on the ground, one leg bent, the other extended, balancing on his arms. They were both breathing heavily. 

Lucien fell back in the water and floated trying to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure he could stand and drag himself from the lake. He could hear Gatien laughing.  
‘Swimming away is your plan?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I have a musket!’ Lucien groaned and lifted his head.

‘Surrender?’ asked the Musketeer politely waving the musket at him. Lucien grimaced, rolled to his stomach and dived.

Under water, he swam the width of the lake, surfacing quietly in the reeds at the far shore. Gatien was up on his feet, scanning the water. Lucien crawled from the reeds, and in the cover of the shrubs crept out of the water to the far shore.

‘Escaped!’ he yelled. Gatien roared at him, collapsing back onto the ground, laughing. He plunged the wooden sword into the ground and held up his hands in defeat.

He dove back into the water and swam to the opposite shore. Gatien watched the young man stand and walk to the water’s edge, pulling his legs through the water, hands pushing his hair back, water streaming down his arms and body. He was now as tall as the Musketeer and had filled out the promise of his broad shoulders and chest, a tapering torso and strong arms He stopped and dropped his hands to his knees, bent over and breathing hard to catch his breath. He looked up quizzically at his teacher. Maybe this lesson wasn’t yet over.

‘Let’s eat!’ the big Musketeer called to him. 

>>>  
Lucien stood in the shadow of a large tree watching the arched entrance to the Musketeer garrison. He had been watching as young boys, older boys, young men and older men entered into the yard. Several training exercises were underway, and potential cadets were lined up like nine pins to be tested. And, like nine pins, they were falling down.

He was nervous. The yard was filled with the blue-caped soldiers and he knew these men as debauched drunkards in the tavern who brawled in his village, leered at young girls and married women, staggered drunk and violent to the small huts. He wasn’t afraid to test his skill. He was afraid to test his restraint. But Gatien had wanted him to consider a life in this company. He would go through the gate, line up with the others and try. He owed more than that to the man who had saved his life and been his friend and more.

He waited and watched the others spar with sword, shoot at targets, and fight with Musketeers. There were several older soldiers watching critically and making notes, several calling instructions. Catcalls and insults were also flying through the air in attempts to distract a cadet’s focus. The day was hot and the dust was billowing up making the combatant’s cough and their eyes tear. The would-be cadets were struggling to stay on their feet and hit their targets.

He faced a dark man, with curly hair. He was a big man, but Gatien had been bigger and very fast. The dark man was also quick and Lucien, struggling with an initial onset of nerves, barely managed to parry the first few sword thrusts. He slowed his breathing, balancing his weight on moving feet, watching his opponent, learning his signals, arms flexed as he had been taught. The big man occasionally nodded at him in approval and he was beginning to enjoy the contest as he had enjoyed sparring with Gatien.

And then, he heard it - a voice, from years ago, calling to him, mocking and insulting. 

Hey, boy – where are you? Come here boy!

He tripped and inadvertently half turned to the sound. The dark man frowned but held his sword.

He was there, sitting on a bench, staring at him, cruel mouth laughing and drawn back in a malicious grin. It was the drunken man who had stumbled into the barn. The man Gatien had almost beaten to death for what he had done to him.

Lucien’s breath caught in his throat, and his chest heaved. He looked around slowly and saw the blue-cloaked men sitting or standing watching him. A few were laughing together.

How’s your mother boy?

He turned back to the dark man. He was watching him carefully. Was that pity in his eyes? The dark man shook his head imperceptibly and raised the sword to continue. Disregard them he was telling Lucien. Focus.

Lucien took a deep breath quieting his anxiety, narrowing his dark eyes in concentration, setting his mouth in a hard line. He slanted his eyes in quiet anger at his opponent and raised his sword.

They battled hard, the dark man pushing him repeatedly into a deadlock with him, only for Lucien to parry, slide, duck or slip away from defeat. While he didn’t rout the dark man, he didn’t surrender either. When the captain finally ended the match, they were both breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

He could hear the laughing continue as he sheathed the sword and collected his jacket. Other men were staring at him curiously, not knowing the source of the lewd jests. He looked around the garrison slowly. His lip curled in anger at his humiliation by these men - this vaunted company who served the King, a guard composed of many aristocratic sons that carried out the King’s orders. He felt the heat of anger uncoiling deep inside him - in this place honor and nobility - among these men were those who assaulted boys, drunkards who were dissolute, dishonest, and assaulted women at will. In here were the men who visited his mother, beat her and threw coins at her. They laughed at him? How was it that Gatien had belonged here? If Gatien had lived, would it be any different?

He returned to the house and bathed away the dirt and sweat from the match. He went to the drawing room, lit candles and built a fire to warm the cold room. He wandered to the kitchen looking for food and found a tray the woman had prepared for him. He took it back into the drawing room and returned to the sofa. He ate cold chicken and bread. There was cheese and a small pie. He drank deeply from the wine carafe.

He didn’t belong here. Now, in the darkened drawing room of Gatien's house, surrounded by portraits of unknown people, in an unfamiliar city - he wished fervently for Gatien - to see him shouldering his big frame through the door, kicking off his boots, loosening his tunic and reaching over to tousle his hair. He had not yet cried for him – but Gatien had not expected that from him. He feared the full realization of his loss.

He banked the fire and took the candle up the stairs with him. He lay in Gatien’s bed listening to the quiet of the house. Tomorrow he would find an estate agent and rent the house. He would find other lodgings closer to the docks. He intended to look for work there. He would live a different life. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he thought it would be among those who held a more honest opinion of their trades, be it legal or not, who knew who they were, and did not pretend to unmerited nobilities, but who practiced a different code of honor.


	3. Friends and traitors...

‘I was thinking you might not be coming,’ she said to him, without turning around, as he opened the door. Sleeping late?’ she teased him.

The kitchen was fragrant with the smell of baking. Juliette was rolling out dough on a large square table set in the center of the room. Metal trays spread with butter waited for her to place her products for baking. Bowls of jam, honey, sugar, almond paste, nuts and fruits were set neatly in the center of the table. The smell of baking flour, butter, fruits, spices was mouthwatering.

‘What’s all this,’ Lucien asked, tilting his chin towards the baskets lined up on the table. They were filling with bread, cakes, rolls and tarts. He reached for a tart. ‘Are you now cooking for the entire palace?’ He moved to a stool near the fire and poured a cup of tea.

A young girl came in from the tavern, arms full of containers, ‘I have more baskets,’ she said to Juliette. She set the baskets on the table. ‘They are here on the end to your right.’ She smiled at Lucien and he smiled back at her. He could see she could barely contain her anticipation of something.

‘Thank you, Lucille,’ said Juliette. ‘We are going to the market today,’ she informed Lucien.

‘It’s our first time selling our baked goods.’ She was flushed from the heat of the ovens and excitement of setting up her stall in the market.

‘You are going to make a fortune on these,’ he said, waving the tart at her. ‘You will need a guard for all the coin you will collect. Perhaps I should come with you.’

Juliette grinned toward him, ‘Gerard is coming with us.’ A glowing flush rose to her cheeks and her blue eyes shone with happiness as she spoke the man’s name.

‘Oh well,’ Lucien said playfully. ‘You’ll have no use for me.’ He grabbed another tart, planted a kiss on her cheek and turned to leave.

‘I’ll look for you there later,’ he promised.

xxx

He sat outside the tavern watching the crush of merchants and shoppers filling the market square. He could see Juliette, Lucille and Gerard working at their tables with tiered shelves for displaying the baskets filled with fragrant breads and pastries. Customers were lined up and waiting their turn. Juliette was talking with a woman from an adjacent stall.

A tall Musketeer stopped in front of their table and Juliette turned to him, smiling and talking animatedly. She reached into a basket and pressed a pasty into his hand. He watched the Musketeer walk to the corner of the square and join another Musketeer. They appeared to be standing casually observing the crowd, and talking to each other. But there was an alertness to their eyes as they roamed over the shoppers.. He frowned. They were searching for someone. He glanced in the direction they were looking but the crowd was too dense. Something was wrong.

He looked back towards the pastry display, watching Juliette, Lucille and Gerard, talking with customers, accepting coin and wrapping purchases into paper. He frowned, alarm beginning to uncurl inside him. He stood up and started to walk towards Juliette. Guns exploded.

Instinctively he ducked. The air was split with screams as musket fire erupted from all directions, smoke beginning to fill the square. A woman fell in front of him, her back pierced by a bolt from a cross-bow. He dropped to his knees, fingers reaching automatically to touch her neck but felt no beat of life. He crawled under a stall, trying to see Juliette’s cart through the smoke and chaos of people running, falling and fighting around him. There was a man to his left with a musket raised to fire. Spanish, he thought. He pulled his musket from his belt and shot him. He kept moving towards the pastry cart and Juliette, Lucille and Gerard. He hoped they would not be there. He hoped Gerard had gotten the women away.

But he hadn’t. A woman’s skirt and legs, Gerard crouched over her, obscuring her face. Lucien grabbed Gerard’s arm and the man turned, his face crumbled in pain. His hands were covered in blood. Juliette lay very still on the ground, the cross-bow bolt embedded in her shoulder. Blood was seeping into the ground under her, staining the dirt red. Her breathing was rasping, her eyes unfocused. Lucille was on the other side of her, tears flowing down her cheeks pressing a cloth to the wound to stop the bleeding. Her hands were shaking.

Lucien gripped Gerard’s shoulder, hard, ‘Go get Prujean – now!’

Gerard stared at him blindly, uncomprehending. Lucien shook him, ‘Gerard! you must go now. Bring him back to the tavern.’ Lucille struggled to rise and pulled at the shocked man. Gerard got to his feet, his eyes not leaving the stricken woman at his feet.

‘I’ve got her, you must go quickly,’ Lucien urged him. Lucille grabbed Gerard’s hand and they ran for the surgeon.

Lucien took his scarf from his neck and wrapped it under her arm and around her shoulder to staunch the bleeding. He placed one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders picking her up as gently as possible. He started walking as fast as he could.

xxx

Athos stood for a moment in the doorway of the work room. Plants, leaves, bark, twigs, roots were hung from a complex drying network overhead. Shelves, with various sized bottles and other small containers, were lined against one wall. The bottles were neatly organized and labeled. A small fire burned in the fireplace, water heating in a copper pot hung from a hook.

She had her back to him, standing at the large worktable that occupied most the room, and from the movement of her shoulders he could see she was grinding something against the mortar into a fine powder with the pestle. A boy sat on a stool in front of the fire eating a large bowl of stew. 

‘Just a moment Athos,’ she said without turning. She tipped the contents of the bowl into a folded paper and twisted it closed. She quickly placed it and another vial into a box with paper and secured it. The boy had finished his meal and took the box from her.

‘Hurry but be careful not to drop this. You must tell Monsieur Prejean that I can come if he wishes me too,’ she said to the boy. He nodded, and Athos stepped aside to let the boy pass him.

‘Who was that for?’ he asked.

‘A woman from the market, shot with a bolt,’ she said shortly. ‘Someone got a surgeon to her quickly and she may survive,’ she added.

Now she turned to look at him, lips compressed and eyes flashing in barely contained anger.

‘Porthos?’ she asked tightly.

He shook his head. She was walking toward him and didn’t wait for permission before she pulled his cape aside and was running her hands over his shoulders, chest and down his arms. She was looking for injuries.

‘I’m fine,’ he said and tried to take her hands, but she pushed his away.

‘You’d say that if you were standing here with both legs cut off,’ she said irritably. Neither one of them smiled at the ridiculous nature of her remark.

‘What were you thinking?’ her anger was beginning to boil over. ‘Five people dead, another score injured.’

‘I know,’ he said, sighing heavily. ‘It did not go well.’

‘It did not go well?’ her voice mocked him. ‘That’s it? It did not go well?’

‘Sophia…’ he started. But she didn't wait for his explanation.

‘You tried to carry out an assassination attempt in a market!’ The stupidity of the idea was clear to her if not to him.

‘People go to a market to buy food for their supper, a piece of cloth to make a dress for a child, or a shirt for a husband, not to get killed while you are trying to murder someone.’ Her voice was rising.

He said nothing. She was squeezing his right shoulder and he winced involuntarily.

‘That’s not new,’ she said, referring to the pain he felt. ‘You might try to wait for old injuries to heal before getting new ones.’ Silence fell between them.

‘Porthos took a bolt?’ she said quietly He nodded. ‘In his leg.’ She grimaced, her mind racing through potential consequence of such an injury.

‘He’ll try to pull it out. He won’t be able to do anything unless he removes it, it will be too painful. He’ll have to stop the bleeding somehow. It won’t fester right away, if he can be found within…’

Athos took her arms, pulling her to him and looking into her face, ‘we will find him,’ he said firmly. D’Artagnan was already hidden on the back of the carriage and would return to tell them where Porthos was being held. And the daughter. It would be over and Porthos would be back.

Her eyes flickered to his and he could see the tears behind her anger. On the long journey to Paris, Porthos had taught her card games and they had collected small stones for gambling. She was soon cheating as well as he, and her halting French improving and expanding with curse words. Porthos had broken down a door to save her life.

‘The child?’ he asked her. She shook her head. The Dauphin was ill, the doctor unable to find a remedy.

‘Not improving. Constance has a good idea, but no one is listening to her.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Just another stupid woman,’ she said cynically. ‘And not noble enough. Or at all.’

What a terrible night, he thought to himself. She lifted her head and they looked at each other steadily, the iridescence in her blue eyes sadly muted.  
‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘I’ll be here,’ she said. He kissed her forehead and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophia's story begins in 'A plain unvarnished tale...'


	4. Blessed be the ties that bind....

A small boy ran into the tavern, looking around for Athos. He spied the Musketeer, alone at a table littered with wine bottles and one empty glass, head bowed, broad brimmed hat obscuring his slumbering features. The boy quickly ran to him and tugged at his sleeve. The man opened one dark bleary eye and rolled it toward the child, scowling. The boy stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear. He stood back and waited. From a table away, two other Musketeers watched and waited too.

For a moment Athos was motionless, but continued to stare at the boy, trying to digest the information that had been delivered to him. Then, a sudden burst of activity. In one movement, he stood up abruptly and shoved the chair back, knocking it over. He grabbed the boy by his shirt and dragged him closer, bent down to him, ‘who sent you?’ he growled hoarsely.

The boy winced under the firm hand that held him, ‘Monsieur Berlu,’ he managed to squeak and smiled at the man. Athos grunted, released the boy and nodded. He turned towards the door, holding up a hand to forestall the others from joining him. He shook his head at them and strode from the room.

He followed the boy through the winding streets that became narrower and darker as the buildings that lined their length became taller and seemed to lean ominously inward toward the center of the street. Women emerged from darkened doorways as he passed, men slithered around him plying all manner of wares to numb his mind and body, and boys, hands on hips and thrusting forward their thin naked chests, detached themselves from walls for his inspection. He ignored them all and followed the child.

They came to a small windowless house set back from the roadway. An alleyway led from the main street towards the back of the building. The boy stopped and pointed to the door. Athos drew several coins from his pocket and handed them to the child, who vanished into the alleyway.

He rapped sharply on the door and pushed it open. He was in a darkened entryway, a few candles burning. A room was to his left, curtained from his view. To the right was a hallway, with curtains along its length, marking an entrance. He started down the hallway, pulling aside the curtains to peer inside each cubicle. A man appeared at the end of hall, waving the tall Musketeer forward. Athos dropped the curtain he was holding and walked toward the man. As he drew closer, the man held a curtain aside for him and Athos stepped into a small room.

There was a tiny Chinese woman sitting on a low stool in the corner. She was very still, her impassive eyes looking at him, unblinking. Several candles burned on a low table next to her. In the middle of the room was a single bed, a small table next to it with a carafe of water, a glass and several small cups. There was a figure on the bed, rolled to their side, facing away from him, motionless and covered with a blanket. He stepped to the bed and gently turned the figure to him.

Sophia was unconscious, or asleep, depending upon one’s opinion of being under the influence of opium. He glanced at the tiny woman and she held up one finger. She had last taken the drug one hour ago. It would be another four hours before she started to wake – and want more.

He pulled off the blanket and lifted her, carrying her from the room. The boy opened the back door and he stepped through it. The carriage was waiting in the alleyway. The man helped settle her in the seat. Athos gave the address to the driver and sat next to her, holding her against him. He stared out the carriage window, absently stroking her hair.

He carried her inside the house and into the drawing room, laying her gently on the chaise. He built a small fire in the fireplace and went to the kitchen returning with a basin of water and a cloth. He removed her shoes and cloak, loosening the laces of her bodice so she could breath easier. He rinsed the cloth and gently applied the cool water to her face and neck. He found wine in the cupboard.

He studied her, his eyes filled with unmasked worry and sadness. He hadn’t known the depth of the unhappiness he knew she felt. Raised far from her native home, in a land considered foreign, she had recently been brought to a city that was foreign to her. She had no family, no friends, and among those whose society she had been born to, she was an object of curiosity and for some, jealousy – spawning ridicule and gossip shared behind fans held to scheming mouths of the King’s sycophantic court. She was, more or less, confined to the palace, and she desperately wanted to return to the country she considered her home and the people she loved as family.

It had been many years since he had gone to the little house and sought the coveted oblivion she had found for herself. In the chaos and madness that had followed his brother’s death and his judgement on and execution of his wife, he had abandoned his home, leaving the ghosts behind him – or so he thought. But in the streets of Paris, they roamed with him, staring at him with sorrowful eyes when he woke in the dark night, shaking and sick from the nightmare of his brother’s blood seeping into the carpet and his wife’s accusing eyes in her canted head as she swung from a tree. His father watched with sad eyes as he sat in the tavern, trying to drink enough to blind himself to the ghostly manifestation of the father he had loved and disappointed.

She stirred slightly, bringing him awake in the chair beside her. He leaned toward her, drawing the cool cloth across her forehead, holding a glass with water to drink. Her eyes fluttered, and she struggled to bring him into focus. When she did, she frowned, shaking her head slightly and muttering, ‘no…no.’

He gathered her to him, stroking the hair from her forehead, asking, ’why Sophie? why?’

She closed her eyes, her face crumpled with unhappiness, eyes filling with tears, ‘I don’t belong here,’ she whispered. He held her, weeping and brokenhearted, against him.

‘You belong to me,’ he murmured. She shook her head, ‘not even that,’ she sighed. She might have belonged to him. But long ago, their lives had altered course, and then altered again and then several times after that, until they were no longer the people, much less living the lives, their fathers had dreamed of and so carefully planned.

She had promised him she would not seek the little house again. He did not really know if she had been able to keep that promise, but he believed that she had tried. And if she had failed, she would keep on trying – pitting all her strength against the sweet unbroken sleep she craved.

All their lives were under the darkening shadow of events in the palace -his wife the King’s mistress, the King and Queen growing ever distant, a powder keg of intrigue, betrayals, gossip, and countless petty rivalries among the court threatening to incinerate them all. And, then there was Rochefort.

‘Athos will stay with you,’ Aramis had said to the supposed emissary from God. ‘He has some experience in these matters.’

Now they were in Sophia’s work room. She was handing Constance a small box with vials and twists of paper containing medicines to help the beleaguered woman survive the ordeal in front of her. Constance was listening carefully to the instructions Sophia was giving to her.

‘I can come,’ Sophia said to Constance, while looking at Athos.

‘I may need some help later,’ Constance replied. ‘I understand she may sleep a long time.’ Sophia nodded, still looking at Athos.

She wasn’t offering to go there to help the misguided mystic. Sophie cared nothing for this woman, judging that religious zealots were dangerous and unpredictable people, their hubris responsible for carelessly destroying lives with self-serving versions of God.

She would go there for him. She understood that, during the time he would spend helping the woman purge herself of the drug that powered her visions, memories can rise, unbidden. These memories do not come like gentle reminders of the past. These memories, triggered by the slightest remembrance of smell, sight, hearing, or touch, will detonate inside his mind, dragging him to the darkest places and shattering his heart.

As he passed her, she touched his arm, ‘are you sure?’ she asked softly. He turned to her and they held each other’s eyes for a moment. ‘I’ll find you later,’ he said.

‘I’ll be here,’ she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophia's story begins in 'A plain unvarnished tale....'


	5. Stay close, my heart, to the one who knows your ways....(Rumi)

Treville looked up as Sophia entered the room. He stood up and walked around his desk, pleased to see her. She did not come to his office unless he summoned her. He tried not to summon her – he didn’t want her obeying his orders. He wanted her to seek him out for her own reasons. But, they did not yet have easy rapport with each other. She believed he was withholding information regarding her family. She was right – he had not told her everything. It seemed too soon.

She was carrying her bag, ‘are you all right?’ she asked him. ‘The stable master said you were limping.’ He was happy to see her, and for a moment he thought he felt a pain in his leg and a limp forming. But he shook his head.

‘I am all right,’ he replied, blue eyes smiling into hers. ‘But I am happy to see you.’ He drew her toward a chair. ‘Please, sit for a while.’

‘I was going to see Athos,’ she said, evasive about staying. ‘I was told he was injured.’ Treville nodded. He was bound for a considerable time.’ She nodded, but stayed seated, seeming as though she wanted to discuss something with him. He waited patiently.

‘The decision of the magistrates, regarding my lands,’ she hesitated, ‘and my independence.’ Treville nodded. He hadn’t expected the outcome, but was pleased with it, although he knew she chafed at what she regarded as a restriction in her independence.

‘Would the chief magistrate consider an appeal?’ she asked.

‘He might not understand your basis for appealing,' he hoped his answer sounded as neutral as he intended. 'Your claim and petition were approved. The magistrates supported your good sense in requesting assistance with the land petition from the Comte de la Fere. In effect, they are agreeing with you by ensuring you will have continued support and advice. What reason would you give for repealing that decision?’

‘Yes, I see the problem,’ she sighed. ‘Is it not a burden for him?’

‘He accepted,’ Treville said. ‘He wouldn’t have done so if he did not want too.’

xxx

She found him in his rooms. He was sitting in a chair in front of the window, feet propped up on the windowsill, head tilted against the back of the chair, eyes closed. Several wine bottles and one glass were on the table next to him. She knew he wasn’t sleeping.

‘Is the view better with your eyes closed?’ she asked. She picked up a stool on her way to him, setting it in front of him. He grunted but didn’t open his eyes. She glanced at the wine bottles. Two out of the three were still full.

‘I see you are back,’ she said.

‘Your powers of observation are remarkable,’ he muttered wryly, not opening his eyes.

‘I am remarkable!’ she agreed, laughing at his bad humor. She picked up one of his hands pulling back his sleeve and frowning at the abrasions on his wrist. ‘Is the other one the same?’ she asked. He didn’t answer, eyes remaining closed.

‘I don’t need your help,’ he said ungraciously. She sighed loudly with theatrical patience and dug in her bag for a small vial, pulling out several objects and setting them on the floor.

Several silent moments passed. ‘That was unkind and rude,’ he acknowledged of his remark.

‘Well, it was you who said it,’ she replied gently, head bent over his wrist studying the wound. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, she smiled and glanced at him quickly.

She laid his hand on a cloth covering her lap, carefully wiping the abrasions and cuts with a clear liquid. She pulled another vial from the bag and slowly massaged the injured area with a thick cream. She wrapped a bandage around his wrist, tying it firmly. She reached for the other hand. He didn’t move it. She tilted her chin to the unattended hand and wrist.

‘Maybe it will go septic and then I can cut it off,’ she narrowed her eyes at him as though relishing the prospect. He grunted again and moved his arm towards her. He closed his eyes and lay his head back against the chair.

‘So eloquent tonight,’ she remarked as she started to work on the other hand and wrist.

‘I understand you stood in your market square and relinquished your titles. Or tried too.’ He raised an eyebrow but did not look at her.

‘You know it doesn’t work like that,’ she chuckled. ‘Can’t give up what is bestowed by God – don’t you remember the rules at the investiture? It’s inscribed somewhere – no relinquishment of titles.’

‘I gave them my seal,’ he answered and reached across himself to retrieve his wine glass and take a drink.

‘Oh well that’s helpful,’ she laughed again, this time scorn creeping into her voice. ‘Here’s a question for you…’ He rolled his eyes at her already knowing he didn’t want to hear the question.

‘Can your tenants stand in their market square and renounce their poverty?’ she asked with feigned innocence. ‘It would seem only fair.’ He pulled back his now treated hand and wrist and poured more wine, looking balefully at her. 

‘You do know that you have done nothing but leave them vulnerable to your thieving neighbors who will see an opportunity to appropriate your lands.’  
‘There are magistrates for that sort of thing,’ he waved his glass at her. ‘The tenants can fight for what they want.’

‘So should you,’ she countered, looking at him pointedly. ‘You are the guardian. You cannot abandon what you swore to protect. You will not feel better for it.’ She eyed the wine bottles on the table.

‘This is not your concern,’ he reminded her, his tone clearly ending the discussion and pouring more wine. They had been over this several times already.

‘It’s only fair,’ she said, the discussion not ended. She stretched out her legs, unconcerned about his irritation. She couldn’t seem to avoid his annoyance with her – might as well try to circumvent daylight that came with the sun rising.

‘Since the magistrates have put you in charge of every decision I make, I think I’m entitled to commenting on a few of yours.’

‘Comment noted,’ he said. ‘Now we are finished.’

‘There was a woman living in the house?’ she asked, clearly not finished.

‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. She glanced at his profile. He was staring into his glass and even without seeing his eyes, she knew they were troubled and sad. Catherine, face contorted with wild tears and screaming - Thomas is murdered! – your wife, your wife – Anne, beseeching him, struggling against the servants’ restraints. Thomas – lying so still, his blood seeping into the carpet. Thomas – their mother ruffling his blond curls haloing her child’s face, - mind your big brother - Thomas breathless, his short legs running to keep up with his long strides….

‘She was left there?’ she was asking him a question.

‘My mother was still alive, and she stayed with her for a short time. I never knew where she went. I didn’t ask.’ She was quiet, watching him carefully, alert to the effects of his remembrances.

‘She is different from how I remember her. Her circumstances…’ His voice trailed off.

‘You are responsible?’ she asked. ‘For her circumstances or forgetting her?’

‘They are one and the same,’ he said irritably. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’

‘Did she write? Ask for assistance?’ she asked. ‘More letters you never opened?’ He decided to ignore her completely.

‘You feel guilty for her. For your wife. For your father and mother. For your brother. For your tenants.’ Now he was gritting his teeth and his glare had turned darker.

‘Did I leave anyone out?’ The consequences of his actions were known to them both. She knew where his actions had driven him.

‘And now you are drunk most of the time,’ she was direct. ‘Very helpful for improving anyone’s circumstances.’

‘That’s enough,’ he snapped at her.

‘Does God know he has a rival?’ she continued to look at him. ‘You should write a note that you are responsible for the world,’ she advised.

She was not unsympathetic to his belief that he had destroyed everyone around him, but the consequences of the guilty verdict he imposed on himself served no purpose that made any sense to her. Silence fell between them. She looked into his face, blue eyes darkened and steady on his. She looked down and gently stroked his injured hand.

‘Is there no end to this punishment? We live, and we can hurt others - a web of decisions and choices. Within one decision are the hundreds that came before and those that will come afterwards.’ 

‘Anne should have told you the truth; she could have tried to trust in love. Isn’t that what poets say love is supposed to be? To leap into an abyss and hope to be caught?’

He studied her for a moment. ‘I know,’ she sighed in answer to his study of her. ‘Just a child – what could I know?’ 

He didn’t smile, his thoughts elsewhere. He saw her as he had the first time. Without saying a word, from behind beguiling green eyes she whispered secrets to him – the enchaining taste of her warm lips, enthralling mysteries hidden beneath the rustle of her silks, sensations as her silky hair flowed through his fingers, the seductive sound of her laugh. She wasn't only beautiful - she was clever and fun, sometimes wild and then, soft and curling into his arms. It would be easy to say he had abandoned the care of reason and consequence. But reasons and consequences had never occurred to him – he had abandoned thought altogether.

He stood up and held his hand out to her to help her stand. He was suddenly hungry. ‘Have you dined yet?’ he asked her. She looked at him in confusion. ‘At this hour?’

‘The cooks like you,’ he said. ‘Make yourself useful.’

She laughed, ‘All right, since you ask so charmingly.’

Later in the kitchens they sat at the end of the work table, sharing bread, cheese, the remains of a roasted chicken and drinking wine. 

‘So, what does she need?’ she returned to the woman living in the ruins of his family home. Angry, betrayed and wanting revenge. What would satisfy her?

‘Lands, wealth, a husband,’ he answered drolly.

‘There is one available,’ she smiled at him. ‘I understand him to be a wealthy man, with many goats and lands in the northern territories. He has recently been deprived of his third wife.’ Now he smiled at her.

‘That would solve some problems,’ he remarked.

‘No corsets required,’ she added as though freedom from this tortuous device could seal the deal.

‘If you are no longer the Comte de la Fere, then I think the magistrates ruling is no longer valid,’ she said, smiling as if she had won a contest with him. He shook his head at her dismissively.

‘I’m going to make mistakes,’ she warned him. Not if I can help it he thought grimly. Her independence was important to her, but she was an aristocrat, with lands, titles, and inexperienced with many ways of the world. She was searching for a boy she had known as a child. She didn’t seem to fully realize that he was no longer a boy – and who knew what type of man he had become? He may well know what to do with a wealthy young woman, naive to the charms of men.

‘Trying to get rid of me?’ he asked her, refilling his wine glass and lifting it to drink.

‘Is that possible?’ she asked feigning hope, widening her iridescent blue eyes. Their lights winked at him teasingly. He drained his glass, setting the glass on the table and regarded her steadily, sighing deeply.

‘No,’ he replied.


	6. Apostle's creed: we do not now see clearly, but at the end of time, we will do so....  Part I Lucien remembers...

The horse was beautiful. The animal had caught her attention as soon as she stepped through the stone archway. Andalusian, she thought – approaching the horse, murmuring and lifting her hand to stroke the silky nose.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispered, to no one in particular. The horse pushed his nose into her chest and she laughed softly, gently scratching behind his ears, speaking to him quietly in Arabic.

The rider, suddenly aware of her presence, stopped speaking to the Musketeer and looked down at her. ‘Beautiful, indeed,’ he murmured. The Musketeer frowned, looking at him sharply and then at the woman stroking the horse.

‘Does my horse understand you my lady?’ inquired the rider, smiling at her, ignoring the Musketeer. She continued to stroke the horse, answering, ‘all horses are related to the great stallions of the Arabian plains,’ she said with a smile. ‘So yes, I think he understands me.’

The rider laughed, ‘then perhaps can you interpret for me?’ She laughed too. She watched him ride away, puzzled as to why he seemed familiar. The Musketeer didn’t move. He had not liked what he had just observed. ‘Are you finished?’ he asked her irritably.

She heard the tone in his voice and turned around, giving him a placating smile and took him arm. ‘Are you walking me back or handing me off to a cadet?’ she tried to imitate his irritated tone at being discharged to a cadet.

‘I am preparing for tomorrow’s ride with the King to the old fort. He goes there to watch the eclipse,’ he told her. ‘It’s a large entourage,’ he complained, and she chuckled at his ill-humor. They were watching Aramis approach, a young man trotting hurriedly after him. The young man was waving a letter at her and she stepped towards him to take it.

‘Treville is going away?’ she turned to Athos, waving the opened letter at him. ‘Where is he going? Why are you not going with him?’ Athos shook his head – he didn’t know of his captain’s plans. He had recently been dismissed from his post as captain of the Musketeers and the situation in the palace was growing increasingly dangerous.

‘Who were you talking to?’ Aramis asked Athos. Even from a distance, he had not liked the look of the man. ‘I wasn’t talking to him long enough to find out,’ Athos replied shortly.

‘Can’t blame him for finding her more attractive than you,’ Aramis admonished. ‘You need to practice being charming for a change.’

Athos snorted. ‘She thought she recognized him,’ he told Aramis. ‘Really? Where would she meet him?’ Aramis frowned. Athos shook his head not knowing what, among all that was going wrong, to be concerned about first. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to Aramis  
.  
Athos stood in the doorway of his captain’s office watching Treville go through papers and pack his case. The former captain frowned at Athos, ‘why are you not with the King?’ The Musketeer shrugged, turning to look at a cadet who appeared in the doorway. Treville motioned him forward and handed the young man a sealed letter.

‘Hand this to her personally,’ he instructed. He turned to Athos. ‘I’m sending her to stay with the Duchess. I want her out of the palace. It’s getting too dangerous and Rochefort has noticed her.’ He looked at Athos, ‘I’m told Milady watches her too.’ Athos’ head snapped up, his eyes widening in alarm. He stared at Treville.

>>>

‘A message Madame,’ the maid handed her a sealed note. Sophia tore it open and read it quickly and gasped with surprise. She ran for the door. In the yard the Andalusian stallion was being held by a stable boy. ‘He’s a beauty,’ remarked the stable boy. ‘Is he a gift Madame?’

‘On loan,’ she replied excitedly. ‘His owner is going away for a few days and is leaving him with me. Saddle him,’ she said happily, ‘I’ll be there shortly.’ She ran back to her apartments to change.

‘He’s beautiful,’ Treville agreed, running his hands over the stallion’s withers. They were in the barn where she was brushing the horse. He would not explain to her where he was going, and he had refused her offer to accompany him.

‘I can be useful,’ reminding him of her special skills. He smiled, ‘stay here, go to the opera and ride this beautiful animal. I will be back within a week.’

‘Who is the man who sent him to you?’ he asked. She shrugged – Athos had been talking with him. She assumed he knew the mysterious rider.

‘Can you explain to me how we do not know the name of this man?’ Treville inquired irritably of the Musketeers. They had made inquiries, no one answered their questions or claimed not to know him.

She rode the stallion every day. At the end of the time, she waited for him to come and reclaim the horse. But the man never appeared. She studied his note – it was signed with only the letter, G. How ridiculous she thought – she didn’t even know his name!

‘Did you know the man?’ she inquired of the stable boy. The boy hesitated. She pressed him,’ you know him!’ ‘Yes Madame’ the boy said. ‘I take messages to him from Monsieur Feron.’ ‘Where do you take these messages?’ she asked eagerly.

>>>

‘Did you forget your horse Monsieur?’ she asked, smiling at him and watching the stable boy lead the horse away until they disappeared around the side of the building. She would miss her daily rides.

‘No,’ he said, watching her rueful expression. ‘I was sure he was well looked after in your care, and I have other horses.’ He was standing in the tavern doorway and turned to briefly talk to a serving girl.

‘Did you enjoy riding him?’ he asked her, stepping out of the tavern, and taking her arm. He steered her across the busy street towards a low bench set at the back on the dock.

‘He was wonderful,’ she enthused and launched into a vivid description of their rides and the stallion’s performance. He did not interrupt her, eyes amused as he watched her animated face The serving girl appeared with two glasses on a tray. 

She looked quickly at him, ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to share spirits with you sir,’ she blushed uneasily. He was standing very close to her and she could smell the soap he used, horses and tobacco. 

‘Surely no can object to us sharing lemonade?’ he said seriously, handing her a cool glass. She looked up into his amused eyes and laughed, ‘no, I suppose not.’

‘Is this your business establishment?’ she asked, indicating the tavern and attached building.

‘I own the building, but the business inside belongs to another,’ he answered. ‘What is your business then?’ she continued. He smiled at her persistence.

‘I help governments achieve their national objectives,’ he replied, affecting a grand manner, waving his hand expansively. ‘According, of course, to the will of God,’ winking at her in shared conspiracy.

‘My goodness,’ she said blue eyes twinkling in mock amazement. ‘You and the Pope,’ she remarked, grinning at him. ‘masters of world affairs!’ He threw back his head and roared with laughter. She was delightful.

He handed her into the carriage and watched it roll away. She had not asked his name. Perhaps she already knew it.

>>>

The sky was still dark with the night. She rolled to her back and stared at the canopy above the bed. Pulling up her knees, she rubbed her eyes with her fingers and dropped her arms away from her body, sighing heavily. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She was restless, her skin hot to the touch – she needed to get out of these rooms. She reached for the note from Treville. He was away and the Musketeers busy attending on the King. But their absence presented her with an opportunity. It would be dawn soon.

>>>

The man entered the office silently. Outside the window the night sky would soon lighten with the arrival of dawn. The man at the desk had a blanket around his shoulders against the early morning chill in the room. He was reading a document and making notations. He finished, dropping the quill on the tray, and sat back, rounding his shoulders to stretch his back and rubbing his stubbled cheek. He had not slept well. He looked up at the man.

‘She left the palace,’ the man said, ‘She rode out before dawn.’ Lucien frowned. ‘Going where?’ The man shrugged. ‘Is anyone following her?’

The man nodded, ‘Henri.’ Lucien nodded. She wasn’t on the open road completely alone. He shook his head at her recklessness – she shouldn’t be on the road at all without an escort. Where was she going? Where were Treville and the Musketeers?

He thought for a moment and then turned back to the man, ‘saddle my horse.’ He suddenly knew where she was going.

>>>

Sophia wandered through the rooms on the first floor. They were kept clean, rugs beaten regularly, dusted, brasses polished, and windows washed. The rooms seemed to be waiting for their missing occupants. Paper was lined up on her father’s desk, ink well filled, quills in the tray. There were small portraits on the table behind her father’s desk. She sat in her father’s chair studying the images of herself and her twin brother. He had led her to the missing treasure. She ran her fingers over his baby cheeks and smiling mouth. She wished she could remember him clearly, but it was a series of fragmented scenes– a baby hand gripping her arm as they learned to walk, a beach - holding hands excitedly as water flowed over their feet, his body leaning against hers listening to a voice singing. But that was all.

She drifted toward the kitchen. It was where she had met Lucien. She had literally run into him as she came through the back door. He was emerging from the pantry, bread in his mouth and stuffing more in his pockets. Thin, dark hair and eyes – she had pushed him back into the pantry and ran to divert the cook’s entrance. He escaped.

She went slowly up the staircase and down the hallway towards the schoolroom. She stared down at the blue carpet. She had been lying on this carpet, studying the atlas opened before her when the soldier's form filled the doorway and he entered, lifting her and carrying her from the room, down the stairs, past her mother, sobbing and pleading with her father. Then, she was out the door, put into a carriage and the door shut and locked. The carriage rolled away, her fists pounding the door and windows, crying out.

She continued down the hall to her room. Her canopied bed was neatly made and covered with a white sheet. Her only doll was sitting in a small chair, legs extended, eyes opened wide and mouth rounded, clutching her own tiny doll as though worried someone might take away her only companion. There were a few books on the shelves. Her father had brought most of her books with them on their journey. The book she had hastily tossed onto her bedside table was gone. She ran her fingers over the vacated place wondering if he had taken it She walked to the window, turning the latch and pushing it open. She leaned out the window to look at the ground below and then to the tree that grew a few feet from the ledge.

‘I hope you are not thinking of trying to scramble down that tree,’ said a deep male voice behind her. ‘Catching you now would be an entirely different proposition.’ She closed her eyes, swallowed hard but did not turn around. She was not surprised that he was here.

‘It was you,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice even. ‘In the palace. The horse.’

‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. He could see the tremble of her shoulders, the rise and fall of her breathing. He wanted to go to her, turn her in his arms and hold her to reassure her. But he wasn’t sure. So, he waited, his heart hammering so hard he wondered that she couldn’t hear it

She turned around slowly, and his chest tightened at her anxious face. She pressed her hands together, hunching her shoulders trying to control their trembling. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I wasn’t sure you would remember me. Or want me to tell you,’ he dissembled and then told the truth, ‘I was afraid.’

‘That I wouldn’t remember you?’ she asked, her eyes widening at him in disbelief.

He shrugged, ‘all of it. I thought it might help to get to know each other a little.’ He raked his fingers through his hair, his eyes darkening. He looked at her, apologetic, ‘I wasn’t trying to trick you.’

She nodded, crossing her arms to hug her chest, shivering. He frowned, suddenly concerned. She was shaking, her face crumpled in confusion and hurt. Her blue eyes stark against her pale face, tears hovering at their corners.

‘You don’t exactly look happy to see me,’ he said softly, teasing her. She gasped, and her hands came to her cheeks.

‘Lucien – I never stopped remembering you,’ she whispered, tears overflowing and running down her cheeks. With long strides, he crossed the room to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pressing her head to his shoulder. Tears soaked his shirt. He released one hand and shrugged his long coat from his shoulders, placing it around her. Her skin was like ice.

‘Let’s go downstairs where I can build a fire. You are too cold,’ he told her, taking her hand and leading her from the room.

He settled her on a sofa and turned to the fireplace. In a few moments the fire was roaring. He pulled the sofa closer to it.

She laughed, ‘the housekeeper won’t like us moving the furniture from its place.’

‘I don’t give a damn about its place, I want you warm,’ he replied firmly, ready to take on the housekeeper. ‘Where’s the wine stored?’ he asked her. ‘Kitchen I think,’ she replied, ‘or dining room.’

He walked back from the dining room with a decanter of brandy and poured it for her, placing the glass in her shaky hands. He didn’t release it to her. She sniffed at the contents.

‘I thought only gentlemen drank brandy,’ she smiled at him over the rim. ‘Not today,’ he replied and still covering her hand with his, he raised the glass to her lips and she took a sip, wrinkling her nose. He chuckled. ‘Think of it as medicine,’ he advised, and raised the glass again.

He sat back and looked at her. Her hands were warming, and there was a little color in her cheeks. He brushed her hair back from her forehead, ‘better?’ he asked softly, his eyes traveling over her face. She nodded slightly, and leaned toward him, resting her head against his shoulder.

‘Lucien,’ she murmured. ‘Hmm,’ he answered, settling back against the sofa, pulling her against him, warming her with his own heat.

‘What happened to you? I have so many questions,’ she said into his chest.

He nodded, fingers stroking her cheek, ‘so do I.’ He lifted her chin to look into her eyes, ‘we have time Rabbit. Or are you planning another vanishing act?’ he was teasing but also questioning. She laughed at the childhood nickname he had given her. It referred to her tactics in avoiding capture by the pursuing maid and nurse.

'I didn't plan the first one,' she said ruefully. She shook her head, ‘No – I’m here.’ She closed her eyes and felt her body release its tension against his reassuring warmth and strength.

She sat upright, looking at him thoughtfully, ‘where do we start?’ He smiled at her. He couldn’t stop touching her – brushing her hair from her eyes and trailing his fingers over her cheeks, stroking her arm. He needed to know she was real, his emotions riotous and barely controllable. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

‘Let’s take a ride,’ he said.

>>>

‘Finally!’ she said, striding into his office. ‘You’ve been away for days. Where have you been?’ she demanded irritably. ‘I needed you two days ago.’

He handed her the wine glass and leaned against his desk, ‘I’m so please to be missed’ he said smiling at her. ‘What happened two days ago?’

‘I saved the King’s life and got evicted from the palace,’ she told him peevishly. She threw back the wine and held her glass out for more. She started pacing the room.

‘Well, a full day days’ work - even for you’ he was impressed and lifted his glass to her in salute. ‘As they say - no good deed goes unpunished – didn’t I tell that recently?’ he reminded her. She slanted her green eyes and curled her lip at him. He grinned again.

‘Ungrateful man! You said he was a terrible lover.’ She snorted derisively and waved away the very thought of the King's nervous wet paws clawing at her.  
‘After everything you did for him,’ he said wryly. She glared at him - not amused by his teasing. He smiled at her and chucked her under the chin.

’So, my lovely - now what?’ he inquired politely. ‘I thought you might have something for me,’ she moved closer to him running her fingers over his chest.

‘I don’t employ assassins,’ he reminded her. ‘Especially beautiful ones. It creates a problem with the men – they worry they are not as desirable.’

‘You could make an exception,’ she cooed softly, fingers trailing down his torso. Her silky hair brushed his cheek as she leaned toward him, the scent of her perfume filling his senses.

‘No one to kill,’ he said firmly draining his glass and gently dislodging her hand from his chest.

‘Besides, how would it look? I can hardly be a criminal mastermind by subcontracting my killing to a woman.’ She laughed. Grimaud’s reputation exceeded the realities of his enterprise, but everyone loved a good story.

‘There is still the offer of the man in London,’ he reminded her. ‘You could start a new life.’ It had been his recommendation to her for some time. Her future in Paris was tenuous.

‘I’m not finished,’ she said angrily. ‘I still have a way to gain leverage.’ He sighed, ‘as you wish.’ He turned to refill their glasses.

‘What is this leverage you think you have?’ he asked idly.

‘A young woman,’ she answered. ‘I don’t see why everyone is so interested in her, she spends most of her time digging in a garden,’ she said scornfully. ‘Can you imagine?’ She was walking around his desk, randomly rifling papers, not looking at him.

‘She is something to Treville and the Musketeers. Rochefort watches her too. I’ll find out why.’

If she had been watching him, she would have seen him suddenly stilled, his hand stopped midway to pouring the wine. She would have seen his face, now carved from rock with narrowed eyes, dark and cold, mouth set in a cruel line. This was a face she had never seen.

He turned around, lifted his gaze to her and smiled, ‘tell me more.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more of Sophia story - 'A plain unvarnished tale...'  
> For more of Lucien's story - 'To hell with circumstances....'


	7. Apostle's creed: we do not now see clearly, but at the end of time, we will do so....  Part II  Lucien remembers...

the feeling was without a name like the true colour of light... (from Lekshmy Sujathan) 

‘It thought it was here,’ he said, frowning in frustration and twisting to look around him. He bent over, digging through the underbrush. ‘It must be covered over by all this,’ he waved at the offending shrubbery as the excuse for his inability to find his own hunting snares.

‘Uh huh,’ she replied, non-committal to his excuses. She was leaning against her horse, watching him with interest and smiling in amusement. She took a bite of the apple she was holding.

‘It’s good you have an alternative occupation,’ she commented, ‘poaching in the lord’s wood doesn’t seem a good option for you, especially if you cannot find your own snares,’ she was grinning at him. He snorted at her and stood upright, hands on his hips, scowling and surveying the ground.

‘I was sure it was here,’ he said under his breath. He glowered at her, ‘why don’t you remember where it was?’ he challenged.

‘I just followed you! remember?’ she denied any responsibility for finding illegal traps. She walked towards him, handing him the apple. He took a bite and sighed. ‘I give up.’ She laughed at him again. He narrowed his eyes at her and tossed the apple core away.

‘My male pride cannot take much more of you giggling at me,’ he cautioned her. Her eyes widened in mock fear and she laughed harder. He shook his head at her, warning and stepped toward her. Suddenly he was throwing her over his shoulder. She squealed in protest but was still laughing. ‘Enough,’ he told her firmly and tossed her onto her horse.

‘Do all pirates have such easily wounded pride?’ she asked him, settling into the saddle and trying to suppress her laughter.

‘Yes,’ he said with mock severity. ‘So, beware my lady.’ He handed the reins to her. She leaned down to him the lights in her blue eyes winking in amusement at him.

‘I am forewarned sir,’ she giggled and turned her horse back to the trail. ‘Where are you going?’ he called to her mounting his horse to follow her.

‘I want to see the village,’ her voice drifted back to him as she moved away. He frowned, started to object and then stopped. He didn’t have a good reason to dissuade her and maybe it was best to not make an issue of it. She would go anyway.

They had been out riding since morning, stopping at the abbey first. The aged and stooped Sister Agatha had been surprised and delighted at their visit, tears appearing in her cornflower blue eyes as Lucien took her hands and planted a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. She and Sophia had met in Paris shortly after Sophia returned, but she had not seen Lucien in many years.

’Do you remember playing here?’ The old nun asked them. They were walking in the orchard, the woman clinging to Lucien’s arm for support. He slowed his step to accommodate her hesitant gait.

‘Sophia climbed trees faster than you,’ the old nun teased the man, who was smiling at the memory. ‘She likes to think she did,’ he said playfully. ‘I let her win, or she sulked all day.’

‘I never did!’ Sophia objected, ‘I was the most gracious of losers.’ Both Sister Agatha and Lucien laughed at her, the old nun admonishing her, ‘an abbey is bad place to bend the truth my dear.’

‘Where have you been all this time Lucien? I have often wondered where you went – after Gatien’s death,’ the nun’s voice saddened at the name of the Musketeer who had come to Lucien’s aid, befriended a poor boy, and at the end of his life, been his benefactor. Together, she and the Musketeer had found the means to educate Lucien – a boy they knew to be intelligent and for whom, despite his impoverished beginnings, they held high hopes. Sophia listened attentively to the stories about the Musketeer who had been crucial to Lucien’s life. Neither she nor Lucien mentioned his current occupation as part of the world of privateers and sanctioned pirates.

‘Gatien wanted him to join the Musketeers,’ Sister Agatha informed Sophia, ‘but I knew he could be an wonderful priest. Perhaps you will yet,’ she said optimistically to him, ‘It is never too late to hear God’s call.’ He smiled at her warmed by her confidence in him.

‘Let me tell you at story of a man who heard God’s call….’ Lucien told a story of a pirate he knew who claimed he heard God calling his name as he was charging along a gangplank to raid a Spanish settlement – an interesting time to hear the Lord’s voice advising a change in one’s vocation. He winked at Sophia over the nun’s head.

They took their leave, promising to return soon. Raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, the old nun watched the two young people she had known as children ride away. She stood in the doorway of the abbey long after they had disappeared from sight. She had seen the way they looked at each other. It wouldn’t be easy, she thought – the differences in rank and family were not insignificant impediments to love. But, she had no doubt they would find a way to be together. They had always found a way.

They had stopped at the lake where Lucien had taught her to swim and where they often retreated to read books, or hide from older village boys who harassed Lucien. ‘Still think you can beat me?’ she asked him, turning to look at him. She was pulling her boots off. He snorted, ‘yes, of course’ he waved his hand dismissively at her. 

With a slightly concerned expression, he watched her run toward the lake. He had been acutely aware of her all day – riding her horse next to him with easy strength and grace, vaulting into her saddle and keeping pace with him as they strode through the woods. Her dark hair was unbound and framing her face, the iridescent blue eyes were shining at him, her beautiful mouth laughing. He watched her feeling more than a little discomfited – he wasn’t sure he could manage his response to seeing her take off her clothes and leap into a lake – only in undergarments. Especially in undergarments.

‘Come on,’ she called to him and clad in her chemise she ran to the edge of the stone outcrop and jumped into the lake. She surfaced quickly, squealing and laughing, ‘it’s freezing!’ she called to him. Good he thought. In his current circumstances, that could only help him. He pulled his shirt over his head.

He reached out his hand to pull her up to the stony ledge. They both dropped down, breathing hard. She curled her legs under her and leaned back on her hands.  
‘Did you come here often?’ she asked him, ‘after I left?’ He glanced at her and smiled, nodding. This was where Sophia had concocted the plan for him to work for her father. It was where Lucien came the day she had been taken away, holding her book to him, and crying for the loss of her. It was where he had come when he learned of Gatien’s death.

‘Come on,’ he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. ‘It’s getting late and we still have the woods.’

‘And the village,’ she said, stepping into her skirt and fastening the ties. ‘And the castle ruins.’

Now, in the late afternoon, they reined in their horses in what would have been in the center of the small village. But, there was no village, only the skeletons of burned buildings overgrown with shrubbery and grasses. It was quiet except for the sounds of birds and the hum of insects. She looked around, puzzled.

‘What happened here?’ she asked him as he drew up behind her. He sat for a moment, looking towards the woods. He was slow to dismount. ‘Everyone left,’ he replied vaguely.

‘This was your home wasn’t it?’ she looked at him, puzzled by his disinterest and impassive expression. He nodded but said nothing.

‘What is it Lucien?’ She could sense his discomfort and stepped towards him, taking his arm and looking up into his face. She frowned trying to decipher the look in his eyes.

‘I never knew your life in the village,’ she faltered as his face darkened further. ‘What happened here?’

He forced himself to look to her. She may as well know it all. He had vowed to himself to never lie to her. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, leading her to the shade of one of few remaining trees. He spread his coat and sat next to her. He was silent, one knee bent, his arm resting on it, pulling at the grass absently. He looked up at her, studying her face absently as though considering other thoughts and trying to form a decision.

‘What is it?’ she asked again, not understanding his hesitancy and worry starting to fill her eyes.

‘I fear it’s a difficult story and you may not want to know it,’ he said lamely. He was filled with uncertainty. He wanted to be truthful with her – there was no other way for them to go forward. But his truth was not pleasant.

‘I do want to know it,’ she said firmly. ‘The truth – I’m not afraid Lucien. I’m not a child.’ He smiled – she was so young, he thought. How could she be prepared for what he was about to tell her.

‘You will be the only person who knows the whole story,’ he said lightly, tapping her nose.

‘I can keep your secrets,’ she assured blue eyes intent on his. ‘If that is what you wish. Do you trust me?’ she asked him.

‘With everything,’ he answered immediately, touching her cheek and returning her gaze, eyes gentle, but serious.

He took a deep breath, ‘I was born here…..’

An hour later, he stopped and glanced at her. She had asked several questions and had not taken her eyes from him as he recounted the story of his life in the village. She had already known of his hunger, lack of shoes or coats. These were things she had helped provide to him. But the rest - he left nothing out – his mother, blue caped soldiers, the assault in the stable, his rescuer, and how he came to Paris. Tears had formed in her eyes. He saw her tears and stood up abruptly, unexpectedly flooded with old and familiar waves of shame. He turned away roughly from her feeling resentful and angry – he didn’t want her pity.

‘Lucien,’ she rose also, stepping around to face him. ‘Please, I didn’t know. How could I – we were so young.’

‘I don’t need your pity now,’ he growled, turning his back to her.

‘Pity? What is pity but compassion for suffering?’ she cried. ‘I feel…,’ she groped for the right words, ‘…sad and so sorry to know what happened to you. What else could I feel?’ she implored. She reached to touch his stiffened back and tried to turn him, but he twisted away from her.

‘Stop this,’ she said irritated at his refusal to look at her. ‘You said you trusted me! Now look at me!’ she demanded, moving around him again to grasp his arms and shake him.

‘It cannot have been easy for you to tell me these things and it cannot be wrong for me to feel distressed and unhappy at what you endured – at what your mother endured. What else should I feel?’

She was holding his arms, anxiously looking up into his face, tears on her cheeks but he couldn’t speak. He swallowed hard - he hadn’t thought this would be so difficult. Humiliation was coursing through him and he couldn’t look at her.

‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘look at me. I’m here – please look at me.’ Her voice was breaking with sobs at his unbending stance, arms crossed over his chest, face severe and unreadable. She had never seen him so hard, unreachable and unyielding.

‘Lucien, look at me,’ she pleaded, resting her forehead against his shoulder, ‘please look at me.’ She reached up to put her arms around his neck, tears dampening his cheek. And without thinking his arms went around her and he was crushing her to him, his tears mingling with hers.

‘Lucien,’ she whispered, her fingers stroking his hair, her body pressed to his. He was suddenly aware of the feel of her against him, the rapid beat of her heart, her breath warm on his neck and the heat of her slender body between his arms. He reached up to pull her arms from around his neck and looked down into her face, her mouth and full lips so close to his and without thought he leaned down to brush his mouth against hers, using his tongue to part her lips, molding her mouth to his, sliding his tongue across her lips. She gasped softly, stiffening in his arms, her eyes widening in shock as sudden and unfamiliar sensations uncoiled deep within her.

He pulled back and looked at the tears, confusion, and desire that filled her beautiful eyes and face. She was trembling, her eyes darting everywhere but at him.  
He knew that look in a woman’s eyes – when their minds advised caution, but their bodies were awakened with sudden desire. He knew how to help resolve that conflict – his body close to hers, his voice soft and teasing, hands idly stroking her arm or back, eyes darkened with passion. He could overcome her defenses even before she knew she needed defenses. He had led many women to his bed who might have thought they ought not to go there. Is this what he was going to do with her? He dropped his hands.

‘Well that’s what you get when you trust a pirate,’ he said wryly, struggling to gain control over the naked lust that was raging through him. He smiled soothingly to neutralize the moment between them.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said picking up his coat and placing it around her trembling shoulders. ‘We should get back before it gets dark.’ He took command of their situation and led her back to their horses. He didn’t wait for her to mount, he lifted her into the saddle, handing her the reins and turned to mount his horse. She had not said a word. He led them out of the village.

At the house he stopped them in front of the door. The maid had seen them arrive and was coming down the front steps. He lifted Sophia from the saddle and turned to the maid. ‘Your mistress is chilled. Take her to her room and put more wood on the fire. She will take supper in her room. It’s been a long day and she should not be disturbed tonight.’ The young woman nodded at his instructions and led Sophia up the stairs. She followed the maid quietly, turning back once to look at him.

He led the horses to the stables and handed the reins to the groom and stable boy. He stopped in the kitchen to tell the housekeeper to take hot water to her mistress’ room and a brandy. Having done what he could think of to put distance and time between them, he went into the drawing room. He added wood to the fire, poured brandy and took off his boots stretching his legs out before him. He raked his hand through his hair. He hadn’t intended for it to happen between them. He knew how much he wanted her - but was it only because she was beautiful and desirable? It was much more than that. He didn’t want to seduce her – she must want him too. He wanted her to love him.

He stood up abruptly. It was still light enough to go for another swim. He chuckled to himself as he strode from the room heading for the stables. Cold water was just what he needed.

It was dark when he returned from the lake. The water had been ice cold and he swam several lengths of the lake, until he was barely able to drag himself onto the rock shelf. Years ago, he had sat here with Gatien, exhausted from their sparing exercises, struggling to stay awake long enough to eat the roasted meat Gatien cooked for them. He lay back on the cool rock looking up at the stars. He had vowed to find the man responsible for Gatien’s death – and kill him. As he grew older he realized the futility of that vow. Gatien had been a soldier and had been sent on a mission. It was unlikely that he would ever know the one man who had been responsible for his death. He had died as a soldier – in a place called Savoy.

He walked up the stairs to his room carrying a lamp. He paused by her door, listening. It was quiet, she was asleep. He went to his room, opening the door quietly, entering the dark room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He started to step forward and came to a sudden stop.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching the gown wrapped around her. Her hair was cascading down around her shoulders and back and she was barefoot. Her face was tear streaked, eyes red rimmed from crying. Alarmed, he walked quickly to her, placing the lamp on the table.

‘What is it?’ He asked anxiously, sitting next to her and turning her to him. ‘What’s happened?’

She raised her tear stained face to him, breath rasping and whispered, ‘I heard you ride away on your horse. I thought you had left.’ Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. His abandoned any thought of not touching her and pulled her into his lap, holding her to him as hard as he dared.

‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to her nose. ‘Blow,’ he commanded. She complied and looked at him through wet eyelashes. ‘I thought it was because of what happened between us, or what didn’t happen.’

‘That was entirely my fault,’ he told her. ‘I shouldn’t have kissed you.’ She looked down, a slow flush creeping into her cheeks.

‘I’ve never been kissed – like that,’ she said shyly, ‘I’ve never been with a man.’ A fact he already knew as well as what his responsibility would be should anything further develop between them.

‘I understand. I don’t want you to worry. Nothing is going to happen between us that you do not want.’

‘And if I do want it?’ a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. She looked up at him from under hooded eyes.

‘Well, that would be different,’ he said slowly, aware of the sudden quickening he felt deep in his body. Just her willingness to have him touch her ignited a fire in him that he struggled to control.

‘But nothing is going to happen tonight,’ he said decisively. She looked questioning at him.

‘Your feet are like ice and nothing is less desirable than a woman with cold feet,’ he told her firmly. She giggled and frowned in confusion as he stood up with her still in his arms and placed her on the bed.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered.

He went to her room and gathered up the pillows and blankets, returning to his room. He pulled back the covers and she scrambled underneath. He pulled the covers over her and stacked the pillows against the headboard. He lay down next to her, his back against the pillow pile on top of the covers. He pulled her blankets over him and raised his arm, so she could lay her head against his chest.

‘Go to sleep Rabbit,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She snuggled close to him, draping her arm across his chest as though to hold him close to her.

‘Lucien,’ she murmured sleepily, exhausted from tears, worry and confusion for what she felt for the man who held her.

I’ll never leave you,’ he whispered to her, stroking her cheek and kissing her forehead. It wasn’t long before he felt the steady rhythm of her breathing, her lashes tickling his skin, her hand resting on his chest.

He stroked her hair absently. He had spent the day un-spooling his life - who he had been and who he was now. He had few illusions about himself – the bastard son of a whore, raised in abject circumstances, who walked a thin line between honest work and brutal criminality, reaping great wealth from his King’s sanctioned violence. Yet, he had been loved – by a nun, a soldier and a child of the aristocracy. With unerring instinct, he knew her love would heal the wounds of his past and direct his future.

He lay in the dark - holding her to him – knowing that someday he would look back and know that this was the moment that marked his life changing forever. He could not foresee all that would happen, but she was as integral to him as the breath that filled his body. And, like the air around him, he would never be able to live without her.


	8. All the marriages of inconvenience...

…the faults in our stars….

She was starting to pace, eyes darting around the room, scowling as she listened. I misjudged this he thought, not wanting this confrontation with her – but he had little choice. He would do everything in his power to prevent her from making this mistake.

She turned, staring at the three people in the room, from one to the other. ‘ _What proof do you have of any of this _?’ she asked tautly. He watched her reaction – squeezing her hands together, shoulders tensed, and, blue eyes dark with anger.__

____

__

‘Sophia,’ admonished the Duchess, ‘the Captain wouldn’t lie to you.’

‘I didn’t say he lied. I said - _what proof is there _,’ she corrected curtly. She didn’t look at the Duchess – only at him.__

____

__

The noble lady started to speak again, and he interrupted, ‘Its fine. She has a right to ask.’ He laid a folder on the table and opened it. ‘It’s in here.’ Her eyes scanned the documents. She snorted derisively, and flipped the folder closed, shoving it away dismissively.

‘Beaufort? DeVilliers? Mondrard? You expect me to take their word?’ she said disdainfully. ‘I don’t believe anything they say about _you _! Why would I take their word against Lucien? A criminal mastermind? These charges of….,’ she couldn’t repeat what she had read. The cruelty and viciousness attributed to him. It wasn’t true.__

__Athos tried to interject, ‘We have other….,’ but she rounded on him furious that he was party to this attack._ _

__‘How could you know anything!’ she bared her teeth at him, ‘your wife bedding the King and your head stuck in a wine barrel for weeks,’ she retaliated scornfully, her shoulders shaking with anger, daring him to deny her accusations. Athos stiffened in surprise, not expecting her to turn on him._ _

__‘I will remind you, that your father signed a contract that would have entrusted you to me,’ Athos said stiffly, gritting his teeth to control his temper. ‘I have a duty to honor your father’s intentions,’ the menace in his voice was clear. ‘the magistrates took that into account…’_ _

__He got no farther because she was stalking toward him, her face a mask of fury, snarling, ‘‘My father would never intend for a man like you…’_ _

__‘Sophia,’ admonished the Duchess, sternly enough to check the young woman, but she did not stop glaring at Athos._ _

__‘I know you are fond of Lucien – he’s a childhood friend. But he is not appropriate for someone of your rank. You must see that yourself,’ the gracious lady implored the young woman -who narrowed her eyes warningly and tightened her mouth. She barely restrained herself from launching a tirade at the woman she loved like a sister._ _

__‘His profession is dangerous and there are many accusations of illegal activity,’ he said firmly. ‘For God’s sake Sophia! He owns brothels!’_ _

__She was wide-eyed and incredulous, ‘ _Brothels _! ‘she cried. ‘And who _uses _brothels and whores? Musketeers? Soldiers? Ministers? The Queen, down the hall from the King and his wh...’ she glanced at Athos angrily and stopped._____ _

______‘Both of you,’ she accused, pointing at him and Athos, ‘work for the biggest criminal in Europe. Starving his own people! forcing them to choose which child to feed to pay his taxes! waging war where men die in the thousands because there are no weapons or medical treatment or even enough food! he’s profiteering from slaves!’ her voice was rising. ‘He legitimizes thieving and murder - that which you accuse Lucien - for his own extravagance ! How dare you talk of criminals to me!’_ _ _ _ _ _

______‘ _Stop _!’ he roared at her recklessness, ‘that is treason!’ If she spoke so wildly in the wrong place there would be nothing he could do to stop Rochfort from executing her on the spot.___ _ _ _ _ _

________‘Then when you hang Lucien you can hang me too!’ she shouted back at him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________‘Please,’ the Duchess attempted to intervene, ‘we are trying to tell you the truth!’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________‘The _truth _?” the enraged young woman looked at her in disbelief. ‘The only person who has been ever truthful to me is Lucien,’ she cried.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘You,’ she jabbed a finger at him, ‘all your secrets – I’m sick of it! Why did you drag me to this miserable country?’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She whirled to face Athos, snarling ‘If my father had known the man you would become…,’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Sophia! Stop!’ cried the distraught Duchess, rising from her chair with tears in her eyes. ‘You must stop – this is too much.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Flushed with rage and defiance, her fists clenched, she stood in front of them, angry tears in her darkened eyes, ‘I don’t believe any of it,’ she managed to say without shouting, turned and strode from the room._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________> >>>>_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He was surprised at how she turned on him and the harshness of her words. Well, he thought, it wasn’t as though none of it was true. During the time his wife moved freely around the palace, he had retreated to the tavern and barely raised his head or his eyes to look at anyone. Now, he didn’t know where she was, but he remained in the tavern._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He waited for her, sitting at a back table so he would see her enter and they would have some privacy. When she entered and spotted him, she hesitated. He stood up and she threaded her way through the tables to him. He poured wine, pushing the glass to her. She had not yet looked at him. He could see the streaks of tears on her cheeks, disheveled hair and the rapid rise and fall of her breathing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘How did you know I would come?’ she asked, ready to defend herself. He sighed, wishing she did not feel the need to protect herself from him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I know you,’ he said softly, ‘one quarter fury, three quarters remorse.’ She lifted her remorse filled eyes and he smiled gently._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her face crumbling with regret at her hateful words. ‘I was so angry. It’s unforgivable.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Sophia…’ he started but got no further. She interrupted him, blue eyes desperate and imploring him, ‘I love him. I cannot help it.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘He is not right for you,’ he said firmly. ‘His background, his occupation - you cannot marry him.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘It didn’t stop you from marrying,’ she countered pleadingly. ‘How is this different?’ He was silent for a moment. He had not talked about this with anyone._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I didn’t know her background. I accepted what she told me,’ he answered quietly. ‘The marriage is most likely invalid – she has married several times and was probably in a common law marriage with the man she claimed was her brother,’ he added, staring off into the middle distance. ‘I never pursued it.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have asked,’ she was apologetic. ‘I’m so….’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Sophie,’ he interrupted, leaning forward to her, ‘what is important is that you not marry him. You must request permission from the King. He will never give it and you cannot marry without it. It would be considered treason. You already know this – there are too many risks.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She studied her hands, ‘you need not worry, he refuses to marry me.’ Athos’ eyes flickered in surprise. The man had more sense that he had credited him.  
‘But I won’t give him up,’ she said firmly. She looked across the table at him and took his hand in hers._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘Athos – please,’ her eyes beseeching him, ‘for all the love I bear for you – please, do not ask me to do what is impossible for me.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He studied her anxious face and covered her hand with his, ‘swear to me that you will not go blindly into this with him, and when I ask, you will tell me the truth.’ She nodded._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I must go and talk with Treville,’ she told him. ‘Yes,’ he agreed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He watched her walk away. It occurred to him there may be no other place safer for her than with Grimaud. The situation in the palace was deteriorating rapidly, the dangers multiplying. Rochfort could and would use her against Treville and could easily issue execution orders that he was not sure the King, in his current state of mind, would countermand. Grimaud commanded men and Athos had no doubt the man would employ any violence necessary to protect her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________> >>_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The pain seared through him dropping him to the street and he knew he was shot. He gasped, inhaling the foul smells of the dirt and grit against his cheek and in his mouth, the pain so intense he couldn’t draw breath. From a distance shouting and screaming, hands touching him, blurry vision darkening._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He was moving, fractured images, and he was swaying. A room and unbearable pain, then a hard surface, blood in his mouth, voices talking but he couldn’t understand. Focus! he tried to concentrate on the voices. Hands, strong – holding him down and pain….so much pain, stop! stop! his heart would burst. Blessed darkness._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________His eyes felt stiff and swollen – he opened them slowly. He was lying on his back. Where was he? A man sleeping in a chair – he knew him. He rolled his lips together and a familiar soft voice, ‘here – water,’ and tipped a glass to his mouth, it was cool and sweet. He swallowed. The light brightening a little. He looked in the direction of the voice – into beautiful blue eyes, iridescent, serious and worried. He knew those eyes – Louisa he breathed to himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, tears hovering. You are not too blame, he thought – we cannot help who we love. I should have told you the truth._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered hoarsely and closed his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	9. Prodigal outcomes

She was falling, instinctively curling her body inward, arms covering her head – from what she didn’t know. The ground was wet, hard, and gritty in her mouth, the smells pungent and mottled – horses, dirt, urine and other waste, rotten food – the smells of the city. She was cold, and every part of her body ached. It was dark – had it been light when she was dragged into the carriage? Hands underneath her – no! no more! she tried to cry out – to protest! But no sounds came from her swollen throat. Vision blurred and darkness.

She could hear a voice, talking softly, but could not understand the words. Shadowy images of a figure and gentle hands warm on her skin. It was a woman. She felt hopeful. But the other one had been a woman too. Her eyes flooded, the shadowy figure was wavy and fractured through her tears.

‘Shhh,’ said the gentle voice, ‘you are safe now.’ Please God – make it true and closed her eyes retreating again to darkness.

She woke slowly, eyes flitting around an unfamiliar room. She was lying on her side, alone in a narrow bed. There was a window in the wall directly in front of her and she could see the gray day. She couldn’t tell the time of day. She was startled by a small sound behind her and tried to turn over quickly, but every muscle screamed in protest. The sound of a scraping chair and a woman’s figure came into view at the end of the bed.

‘I’ll move over here,’ the gentle voice said. She smiled and set the bowl of food she carried on a low table. ‘Care to try eating a little?’ she asked. Her blue eyes were kind and sympathetic. She didn’t know if she was hungry, her mouth and throat felt sore and her face hurt. Did someone hit her?

‘Let me help you,’ said the gentle voice, plumping pillows against the wall. She gasped at the pain when she tried to sit up. For a moment she was motionless with confusion and then visions of memory were restored – walking home through the wood, men on horses and running, her hands and legs bound, a bag over her head and a gag in her mouth, a cold room, so thirsty, a strap brought down savagely against her legs, huddled with other girls, rough hands, pain, so much pain. Her face contorted, and she stared blankly as the woman was rising to sit on the bed and put her arms around her, ‘you are safe now,’ holding her firmly, rocking slightly. She threw back her head to howl her anguish, but there was no sound, only her weeping.

>>>>

In the early morning light, a chattering group of girls were assembled around the table in the garrison yard. Old Serge had raided the kitchen stores for food but stood with hands on hips scowling at what he considered too meager a fare. Constance was smiling, refilling glasses and placing a bowl of fruit on the table.

‘Looking for me?’ a voice called out and he looked up to see Sophia smiling and walking through the garrison gates, swinging a large basket and holding the arm of a young girl who was in turn holding Juliette’s arm. The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries wafted to him and he laughed and limped to her.

‘Just what we need,’ he declared happily and took the basket from her to set the table.

‘Marie,’ the girls called out joyfully at the appearance of one who had been with them in captivity. They rushed to her to embrace her, leading her to the table. Fresh tears were shed as they helped her sit and asked many questions. Sophia and Constance exchanged smiling glances and Sophia squeezed her shoulder as she turned to run up the stairs to Treville’s office.

‘Where’s my basket?’ inquired Porthos grumpily. ‘I won’t get one of those,’ indicating the basket now set on the table and rapidly being emptied by small feminine hands. He didn’t dare poke his huge paw among them – Constance would slap it away.

Juliette laughed and produced another basket she was holding behind her back, ‘did you think I would forget you?’ she asked incredulous at his foolishness. The big man laughed, ‘that’s more like it,’ he declared happily and helped himself.

Treville looked up as she came through the doorway. He smiled at her, but not with his eyes. There were many disagreements between them now. She glanced at Athos, who had risen from his chair in front of the desk.

‘How is she?’ Treville asked irritably. He did not like her association with anything sordid and ugly, but of course she never shied away, and the girl had needed help. He knew that his need to protect her bordered on irrational. She was more versed in the world than he wished.

‘Improving,’ she replied, noting his annoyance at her and walking to the desk. ‘She needs more rest, but her injuries will heal.’ Except the one that will never heal she thought to herself. She looked at a paper Athos had pulled from his pocket and was holding in his hand. It had a list of names on it.

‘What is this?’ she asked craning her head to look at it. She recognized the names.

‘The men who were there last night,’ replied Athos, starting to refold the paper. He didn’t think it necessary or proper for a young woman to know of men engaged in debauched behavior. It was a wretched business.

‘Will they be punished?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Can they be prosecuted for being engaged in buying girls stolen into slavery?’ 

Treville shook his head, rubbing his stubbled cheeks, ‘they didn’t kidnap the girls, and selling a girl’s maidenhood is not illegal. They will suffer no consequences.’

She felt a flush of anger and twisted her mouth in contempt, ‘of course not – these men,’ she waved her hand toward the list she had glimpsed, now returned to Athos’ tunic pocket, ‘names of a King’s minister, two from the small council, and at least two others who lead the guilds. If they had been found with the whips in their hands – would they be held accountable?’

‘They will be publicly humiliated to have been there,’ Athos said to her and realized his mistake before the words left his mouth. She jerked to him, blue eyes blazing, ‘Oh my! They are humiliated!’ she said sarcastically punctuating his choice of word to describe their punishment. He shrugged submitting to her outrage but not willing to engage in another argument with her. He simply nodded his agreement.

‘It’s a bad business,’ Treville said to her shaking his head wearily, ‘but the law will not support arresting them.’ He hated what had happened to these girls, what happened to young girls and women every day in the city – and that he had no power to stop.

‘You should not go about the city without an escort,’ Treville said abruptly. The conversation suddenly veered in a new direction of contention between them. ‘You should at least always have your maid with you.’

‘Because she can put up a fight should someone try to snatch me from the street?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Have you seen my maid?’ 

‘It would be considered more proper,’ Athos added under his breath, immediately wishing he had just keep his mouth shut. 

‘Oh yes,’ she rounded on him, scowling, ‘by all means let’s worry about everything that is improper about my behavior, rather than girls stolen from their villages and sold as sex slaves!’ her voice was rising, hands on hips, fists clenched.

‘They cannot be held to account,’ Treville said, his voice signaling the end of the discussion. She pursed her mouth in frustration - someone will hold them to account she thought grimly. 'You must be involved with this any more. It is not proper for a woman of your station.'

She waved her hands at them in annoyance, ‘you have more in common with Lucien than you know! You should have a drink together and commiserate on your displeasure at all my deficiencies and lack of proper decorum!’

She turned and strode from the room. Treville blew out his cheeks in frustration and Athos stared at the empty doorway. He stood up to leave and turned back to Treville, ‘the King?’ he inquired. Treville shook his head. ‘Rochfort is the only one seeing him now, the Queen is kept away. The court is terrified and hiding behind their doors.’ 

‘This cannot go on much longer,’ said Athos, watching his captain.

‘No,’ agreed Treville grimly. ‘I fear what is coming is decisive for all of us – but I cannot foresee what it will be,’ he ran his hand over his head, frustrated and fearful. ‘The council is afraid of him.’ He glanced toward the empty doorway, ‘I am relieved she is out of the Louvre.’ He looked up at Athos, ‘he will protect her,’ he said wryly.

Athos nodded and left the room. He stopped in the yard to speak to Porthos and D’Artagnan and watch the giggling girls at the table. He told the stable boy to bring their horses and walked to his rooms to collect his hat and cloak. It was only when he was riding from the garrison that he realized the list of names was no longer in his pocket.

>>>>

‘Does he know?’ she asked the young woman.

‘Do we need to consult with him? Require his approval?’ she was amused at the question.

‘He won’t like it,’ she warned, ‘he will consider it dangerous.’

She grinned mischievously, ‘that’s why I’m taking you with me!’

‘Hmmm…,’ she studied the young woman in front of her, who shrugged unconcerned, ‘I can do it myself.’ 

‘He’s in Marseille for another fortnight,’ Sophia said, ‘But I think you already knew that.’ She pushed herself off the doorframe on which she was leaning and wandered the periphery of the room. 

‘There will be no accountability for them,’ she reminded the dark-haired woman. ‘It will continue.’

‘Yes, I think I know that too,’ she replied shortly, no longer smiling. Sophia turned to her, frowned and lifted her hand to touch the woman’s cheek.

‘Anne - I don’t mean to remind you of it,’ she said softly. Green eyes slid towards her considering, ‘what a strange conspiracy of bedfellows we all are,’ she remarked wryly.

‘Interesting choice of words,’ laughed Sophia. She was opening a large ornate wooden box, studying the contents. She looked up at Milady de Winter who was watching her intently. They smiled at each other. Sophia pointed to the box.

‘So, my dear – you choose first. Which do you prefer? The bullet or the blade?’

>>>

She stood in the middle of the crowd in the large drawing room. Mme de Villiers salon was glittering with light from hundreds of candles that filled the chandeliers hung from the ceiling and torches set along the length of the wall. It was lively with animated conversations, clinking glasses, and music. Groups of beautiful women dressed in elegant colorful silk dresses drifted through the rooms followed by admiring men seeking companions for the night.

She was waving her fan slowly and provocatively, her blue eyes winking in amusement at the man standing in front of her, regaling her with his opinion on some political matter. She widened her blue eyes at him in confusion, holding her fan to her mouth prettily and asking, ‘pardon Monsieur – you are minister of what?’ He laughed at the bashful young woman, beautiful but simple minded at the complexities of the world of men.

‘Come with me my dear, and I’ll explain it again. I know a place I think you will find amusing,’ tucking her hand through his arm and starting to lead her from the room. She allowed him to draw her through the room, glancing toward a woman standing close to the door. The woman nodded imperceptibly, her green eyes glittering as she surreptitiously watched them move through the room and pass by her. She smiled brightly at the two men lavishing their attentions on her, excused herself and followed them out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophia's story begins in 'A plain unvarnished tale...'


	10. The Accused

Lucien watched the man circling the perimeter of his office, drawing his fingertips over his books and pausing to study the maps on the wall.

‘Tell me again,’ said the man, turning to him, heavily ringed fingers thrumming against the hilt of his sword. Was that intended as a threat wondered Lucien. He was beginning to find the man, his questions and the interview - boring.

‘How many captains do you command?’ Lucien hadn’t given him this information the first time he asked the question, and he had no intention of telling him now. He had never been asked the questions this man was asking – ministers of the crown did not interfere.

‘It’s a variable number,’ he replied. The man stared at him with narrowed eyes.

‘And the routes you will take?’ he was becoming impatient. He indicated the maps. ‘How many men do you take with you?’ Lucien was silent, leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. The man looked at him pointedly, ‘you will answer the King’s minister on these matters.’

‘Changing routes, and different numbers of men, dependent upon the ship,’ Lucien answered. The man advanced a step towards him, snarling in a low voice, ‘you will assemble this information and deliver it to me. The King requires it.’ He stared hard at Lucien, turned on his heel, threw open the door and left.

The door at the end of the room opened and le Clerc and Grammont stepped into the room.

‘What a charming man,’ observed Grammont, ‘the eyepatch is a fetching touch. Does he think it makes him menacing?’ He poured wine into glasses for them. ‘His mental instability makes him scarier,’ he shuddered in mock fear and grinned at le Clerc.

Lucien walked toward the table, arms still crossed and deep in thought. The questions he had been asking were troubling. Why would Rochfort want this information and what would he do with it?

‘War is coming,’ said le Clerc with certainty. He looked somberly at the other two men. ‘We need to go to Marseille, Le Havre,’ he said to Lucien, who nodded in agreement.

A knock at the door and a man entered, walking quickly to Lucien and handing him a note. Lucien glanced at the signature, ‘it’s from Henri.’ He scanned the message his eyes widening, mouth twisting in suddenly fury – and fear. He jumped to his feet and headed toward the door, grabbing his sword and musket on the way and shouting for his men as he ran down the stairs. Le Clerc and Grammont looked at each other in alarm, heaved back their chairs and ran after him.

>>>>

‘Doctor – tell me! Where is she?’ commanded Rochfort, ‘where is your accomplice in this plot?’ He glared into the frightened eyes of the man he accused of poisoning the King. This was too easy he thought – the woman so conveniently left behind while the traitorous Queen ran for her life with Musketeers. He could make many people pay for their crimes. Or….he laughed to himself….for his crimes.

Two soldiers gripped the stunned doctor by his arms and shook him – hard. Lemay was limp with fear and disbelief, ‘I am innocent,’ he cried. ‘This good woman is innocent!’ he turned toward Constance, ‘Majesty!’ he desperately implored his King.

Rochfort seized the doctor by the throat, ‘where is your accomplice? Where is the Lady Sophia?’ he demanded. Lemay stared at him mouth opening and closing but making no sound. His mind had stopped working. He stared at Constance, beseeching her to believe him. ‘I am innocent,’ he whimpered. Could she convince the King?

Rochfort whirled to his men, shouting, ‘Find her!’ The soldiers left quickly. He turned to the doctor and the woman, snarling into their faces, ‘she will be executed with you!’ Constance felt her throat tighten and her legs were shaking. Don’t collapse she thought to herself – but she wanted to sink to the floor and curl into a ball. There was a sour taste in her mouth and her heart pounded frighteningly hard. She closed her eyes to shut out Rochfort’s hateful stare – D’Artagnan she whispered to herself. D’Artagnan.

>>>>

Anne jumped back and hid behind the door as it was flung open. There wasn’t much time. Don’t run, she thought – it might attract too much attention. She walked quickly across the room and once she had cleared the door, she started to run.

Athos stopped and stepped out of the steady stream of frantic people trying to get out of the chaos that was beginning to envelope the palace. Something had gone terribly wrong. Anne was right – he should leave, meet the others, get to Vargas. He hesitated – dammit!

‘The King is poisoned!’ he heard the cry. ‘The doctor.….’ said another. Fear pricked him – Sophia. If the doctor was accused - he didn’t know where she was. He turned back shoving his way through the crowd.

The door to her apartment burst open and Anne raced in, breathless, ‘they are coming Sophia! You must leave – now! Sophia was on the sofa, preparing to pull off her boots. She stared at Anne in confusion, ‘who….?’

‘There’s no time!’ Anne cried, grabbing her hands and yanking her from the sofa toward the door that opened onto the balcony.

‘The King is poisoned, the doctor and Constance arrested! They are coming for you! Go! Now!’ and pushed her forcefully toward the door.

‘Constance,’ whispered Sophia, but she was stumbling toward the door. ‘You cannot help them,’ Anne muttered pushing her forward, ‘you must go now!’

Suddenly, a commotion boomed, and they could hear screams and cries of frightened people echoing down the long hallway. Swords clashing, men grunting as they fought, crying out as they died. Fear trickled through her. She knew those sounds – she had run from them before in other palaces. Sukh had led her from room to room fighting with those who would take her or kill her. The sounds of men’s bodies ripped open with sword, the taste of blood in the air, forcing trembling limbs to move. How could she have forgotten those lessons? Why should this palace be any different? She looked at Anne with sadness in her eyes. I’m sorry she thought.

She grabbed Anne’s hand and the two women ran through the door and onto the balcony. They turned toward the stairs that led into the park. Soldiers were coming from behind them and more soldiers were streaming down the wide stairs at the far side of the plaza.

‘Don’t go with me,’ she said to Anne, stopping her with a hand on her arm. ‘They will shoot you.’ Anne shook her head vehemently, ‘we can get away,’ she gasped.

‘No!’ Sophia was adamant, ‘stay under the balcony where they won’t see you! Go!’

Milady clutched Sophia’s arm, ‘if they catch you, don’t resist, let them take you to the cells. I’ll find you there,’ she promised.

The door behind them shattered as a man’s body was thrown through it. Athos burst through the broken doorframe, whirling, knife in his hand moving in a graceful arc and slashing the throat of the man behind him. Blood spurted from the gash. A second man charged, forcing Athos out onto the balcony, his sword flashing too fast to follow its movement.

‘Sophia – _run_!’ he bellowed at her. She turned and ran.

She sprinted down the closest pathway, glancing at the soldiers coming across the park, jumping over the low bushes lining the walkways. The stables were to the right. The King’s stallion in the corral and haltered. She didn’t need a saddle to ride a horse and, on that horse, no one would catch her. 

Athos leaped down the stairs running toward the soldiers who were crossing the park angling toward her, gripping his musket. They must have orders to take her alive he thought – they were not pulling their guns – yet. Movement caught his eye at the farthest edge of the parkland. Men on horses, riding fast. Their dark line cresting the low hill, coming through the trees and pouring into the park. He knew the man leading them. Grimaud had come. 

Lucien put his heels to his horse and swerved the surging animal towards her. He gripped the thundering horse under him with iron legs, leaning low and to the side, swinging his arm wide. The soldier gaining on her saw the rider bearing down and reached for his musket. 

Athos threw himself toward the first group of soldiers, shouting at them to draw their attention. He fought his panic - they are gaining on her too quickly – Lucien will not get there in time - he raised his gun... 

Sophia was running towards Lucien, reaching her hand to grasp his arm, she veered slightly to meet him…. 

Muskets exploded. The force of the bullet arched her forward, suspending her and the red cloud that burst from her chest in the air - then - she dropped to the ground. 

Lucien roared, reining hard, leaping from the still moving horse, and drawing his sword. The first two soldiers died instantly and the next two as well. The men riding behind him fired their muskets and drove their horses into the soldiers, men falling under the heaving animals. Screaming, they leaped from their saddles into a melee of fighting and dying men. Le Clerc and Grammont rode hard toward Lucien. From the direction of the stables, two men raced towards the fallen woman and the man leaning over her. 

He gently turned her over, her arms limp, the iridescent lights in her blue eyes dimming, tears streaming, ‘Sophie,’ he whispered, covering the wound with his hand, blood seeping through his fingers, ‘no no no,’ he wept. ‘Please,’ he begged, his forehead against hers, ‘stay with me,’ he pleaded, his tears falling onto her cheeks, mingling with hers. 

He looked up. Athos was standing a few feet away, holding his musket, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. 

‘What have you done?’ Lucien shouted at the Musketeer. 

‘ _What have you done _?’_ _


	11. Trial and Punishment Part I

Sometimes that’s all life is... One desperate act after another. (Terry Goodkind)

There were sudden piercing flashes of light penetrating his partially closed eyes. He was moving, but he could not feel his legs, so how he was moving? Blood – the sharp pungent smell – was it his blood?

_Where can we go? she asked him. She was lying on her back, head against his shoulder, knees bent. It was late afternoon, the sun dipping low in the sky, the air still and quiet. He reclined against the stacked pillows, cherishing the feel of her against him, strands of her hair tickling his skin. Wherever you like, he told her. I have a ship. She rolled over quickly to look into his face, blue eyes wide with excitement and gasping in delight - a ship! We can sail the seas and escape – she laughed and he laughed with her._

_Its dark she said_. It’s very dark. No! Don’t put her there – she will hate it – it’s too dark and so cold. Don’t put her there. She will be afraid….

She hid once, in a dark place. Hearing raised angry voices, and her name, she had crept to their doorway, peering in and unseen. Her father shouting something she did not understand. Her mother saw her and cried out to her angry husband. He whirled and strode to the door looming over her - ‘you do not belong here!’ - slamming the door in her frightened face. She ran from the house and later, could not be found. In the darkness the servants fanning out over the estate, bearing lighted lanterns looking for her, her father riding his horse up and down the roads, shouting her name.

The stable master sought him in the village, ‘where would she go?’ He didn’t know she had run away. He led the man to the rocky face that bordered the lake, where time and erosion had created caves of variable depth. They had explored these caves together - she - clutching his hand, walking behind him and looking apprehensively down the dark passage. Its dark she had said. They played there and sometimes, when older boys chased him, he hid there.

She was in the deepest cavern – having fallen asleep and awakened in the dark, suddenly afraid of the shifting shadows and unable to see the moonlight illuminating the entrance. She wrapped her thin arms around his neck and he carried her from the cave, handing her up to the mounted stable master. She reached out her hand to him – Lucien, she whispered.

‘Best they don’t see you,’ the man had said to him. He watched them ride away, she had leaned around the man to peer at him – stretching her hand towards him.

Where are you? he whispered where are you? Tell me where you are, and I will come for you.

 

>>>>

A man sat in the shadows and puffed on his unlit pipe. A second man stood behind him. They were both watching a third man, lying on the floor, chained to the wall by shackles around his wrists. He was shirtless, lying on his back, groaning, moving his body restlessly as he dreamed. He made a low guttural sound from deep within him, rolling to his side and then to his knees, trying to push himself upright, but he could not lift his head from the floor.

Suddenly he roared and was on his feet yanking the chain to its full length – heaving hard. He battled against the restraints, face contorted, the muscles of his neck stretched and corded with the punishing effort, chest and arms bulging dangerously and gasping for breath. Sweat poured off him from the heat of his anger and the violence that flared, hot and consuming, his sounds guttural and savage.

The man in the chair watched the belay hooks tremble under the brute strength of the man – but they held. He stumbled back against the wall and slid to the floor, spent and breathless. He lay on the floor weeping and fell asleep or unconscious – it was hard to tell.

The man in the chair sighed and waved the steward forward. He carried a basin of water and a blanket. He knelt next to the man, wringing water from a cloth and began to gently wash his fevered body. The man on the floor did not move. When finished he covered him with the blanket and left.

le Clerc leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, holding his pipe.

‘It’s for your own good laddie,’ he said softly. ‘You are not yet in your right mind.’ He leaned back and raked a large calloused hand through his hair and muttering, ‘none of us are in our right mind just now.’ The man on the floor made no reply nor did he give any indication he had even heard the words.

‘You have been dealt a harsh blow – we all loved her.’ It had taken four men to prevent Lucien from killing the Musketeer, standing immobile and senseless, a few yards away. As it was, he had dragged them within striking distance and le Clerc had raised the butt of his musket and rendered Lucien unconscious.

‘You want punishment and you will have it. War is declared on Spain and you can kill all the Spanish bastards you can lay your hands on. But as for the others - the King wants money for his war – so, we go to work, or we hang. It’s the best we can do now, but I swear to you - when this is done, we will return and kill all the Musketeers you want.’

The man on the floor moaned softly. The captain leaned back in his chair. He puffed on his unlit pipe and kept watch.

>>

He was rocking gently and, even in his sleep, he knew he was on a ship. A ship under sail – the smell of the sea and the biting taste of salted air in his mouth, the swoosh slap of the water against wood.

_Wake up sleepy boy, she said gently, pressing her soft lips against his. Where are we going – to Venice? The Spice Islands? She teased him, are you going to sleep all day?_

He didn’t open his eyes or move, lost in the sensation of her lips against his. He wanted to kiss her back, mold her lips to his, put his arms around her shoulders and hips and feel her against the length of him. But he didn’t move.

_Time to wake - open your eyes, she murmured._ No…he told her. You will go away – I only see you in my dreams. She sighed and laid her head against him, her dark silky hair spreading across his chest and arm and he could smell the scent of her soap. He breathed her in deeply.

Where are you? he whispered - tell me where you are, and I will come for you. She shook her head slightly and pressed her lips against his skin. Please - he begged - tell me where you are….


	12. Trial and Punishment Part II

‘Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling…..’ (WBerry)

 

The chapel was quiet, cool and should have been comforting. He knelt in front of the small stone altar and looked up at the cross mounted on the wall behind it. It was large, of dark wood, the figure set on it carved from white stone. Why this test? he asked his dark eyes filled with confusion and anguish. He looked up at the stone figure, at a loss for eloquence. He could only repeat, why this test? The man on the cross did not reply. Was his look filled with compassion? Or only a pained expression - pity for our sad, violent and pointless lives?

Aramis sat back on the wooden bench and dropped his head in his hands. There was a dull ache in his chest for the loss of her and the suffering of his brother. Should he not be with Athos now? to make him lean on his love and strength? He flexed his hands, gripping the edges of the seat. He longed to use those strong hands – to make a fist or grip the hilt of a sword. He felt the vibrating restlessness of his soldier’s body – demanding action. Why, in men, did helplessness and sadness summon violence and anger?

He glanced again at the silent and suffering man on the cross. He had committed himself here – this was the bargain he had made. Are you sure, he asked the man - this is where I belong? Is this the test? He stared hard and demanding at the man – who was mute but waited with him for the answer.

>>>

Two men left the palace from the doors leading into the park. They separated and walked slowly along the pathways and between the low hedges. At times, a man would pause, examining a detail on the ground, sometimes summoning the other’s attention. Despite the efforts of grounds men, the area showed signs of what had taken place there. Crushed shrubbery, torn grasses and bloodied stones were evidence of the violence done. The gardeners had not been able to erase all of it.

Treville watched from his office window as the men moved with deliberation through the grounds. The stewards had ordered the gardeners to work so the King would not be distressed by the damage done to his gardens. Treville's lip curled bitterly - let his royal majesty see what his poor judgement and fecklessness had wrought he thought. Let him see the destruction he had caused. Tears burned at the back of his eyes. He turned away from the window.

The big Musketeer filled the doorway of her workroom. He stopped, listening to the stillness and letting his eyes roam the room. The fire had gone out long ago and it was cold. The labeled bottles and boxes were neatly organized on the shelves, instruments covered with clean clothes, mixing bowls washed and in their usual place. The floor was swept, and chairs aligned close to the cold fire. He walked around the room slowly, coming to a stop at the fireplace. He bent down, stirring the ash and bits of wood. He paused and lifted, between two long thick fingers, a scrap of fabric. It was a piece of silk – dirty and singed but its blue color stubbornly brilliant. He stared at it for a moment and then placed it in the pocket inside his tunic. He stood and went to the door, turning once more to look at the room. He left, closing the door gently.

He walked to the second Musketeer who was crouched down studying the ground. He pointed to the furrowed dirt and then toward the lane that led away from the greenhouse and gardens. The two men stood silently staring down the road, imagining what had made the ruts and tracks and thinking about what might lay beyond their vision.

>>>

He knocked softly and opened the door. A brief burst of noise from the activity in the hallway followed him into the room. He closed the door quietly muting the sounds. Outside the room a frenzy of war preparations was underway, but inside it was eerily still and silent, the room empty except for the man sitting at his desk staring out the window.

Treville said nothing at first, and then cleared this throat, as though testing his voice, ‘it seems you did not find him.’

‘No,’ Athos answered. ‘He may have left Paris.’ Heavy silence fell between the two men. Nothing was easy now.

‘Where would he bur…..,’ Treville started to ask and stopped. Athos glanced at the granite profile. The word could not be said. The word that meant she was gone – dead and buried. She was at this moment, most likely all those words. But none could be said aloud. He could not do so any more than Treville. The heaviness in his chest, the numbness in his mind and the lump in his throat prevented him from forming the words or summoning the air to say them.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘The Duchess thought somewhere on the estate, but we do not know.’

Silence again, as thick and impenetrable as a stone wall between the two men. Each man shared with the other the same sadness - but was alone with his explosive mix of blame, guilt, and stunning disbelief. They could not speak of these feelings – years of devoted service, respect and friendship would be swept away in seconds in the vicious onslaught of bitter accusation and abject self-recrimination. They were left with duty and honor on which to depend.

‘So, you are on your way,’ said Treville, not turning his head.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Then you have your orders. I look forward to your reports.’ He turned to leave.

‘Athos….’ he paused, waiting for Treville, ‘she would not blame you.’ This is what Anne had said to him as she pulled him from the park, numb and senseless, and pushed him onto his horse to ride away.

They were both wrong – thought Athos. She would blame me in her most savage voice - if she thought it would anger me enough to keep me from blaming myself.

Athos turned and left the room, walking along the hallway not seeing any of the people rushing past him. He went down the stairs, walking through the galleries until he came to a pair of ornate doors. He stopped and placed his hands against the cool wood as though divining who or what might be beyond… 

_The grand ballroom was aglow with glittering lights and packed with gaily dressed courtiers, foreign dignitaries and other invited aristocrats. Music drifted over the assemblage, dancers lining up in the center of the room. This was her first formal ball and she was uncommonly anxious. She had not known the dances popular with the court and so lessons had been organized, and everyone got involved. Constance volunteered D’Artagnan to practice with her, Aramis stepping in to whirl her around the empty ballroom, and even the house maître was pressed into service. And he would lead her through the first dance._

_He walked toward her, watching as she looked uneasily around the room, twisting her skirt with her hand, a nervous habit of hers he knew. He stood in front of her smiling encouragingly. He held out his hand, ‘dance my lady?’ She looked up at him with something approaching both panic and pain in her blue eyes._

_‘I don’t think I can do this,’ she whispered, tears threatening._

_He leaned closer to her, whispering back, ‘you swing a sword and handle a dagger better than most men and are fearless on the back of the unruliest horse – yet you tell me you are afraid to dance?’ She stubbornly looked at the floor - mute and terrified._

_He lifted her chin, ‘do you trust me?’  
_

_‘With everything,’ was her immediate answer, her blue eyes confused and wondering at his question._

_He chuckled and took her hand, ‘so dance with me my lady,’ and he led her onto the floor._

_He had spotted her a few times, once dancing with the Duc d' Beaufort. She was smiling, perhaps with enjoyment, but he thought more likely elated at not tripping over her own feet or trampling her partner. She would rather be mucking out stalls._

_But where was she now? He scanned the room again. Suddenly he froze – he saw his wife across the room, surrounded by men from the court. Even from this distance he could see the glitter of the jewels in her black hair, the glint in her viperous green eyes as she returned his stare. He wanted to laugh at the fawning men – she would never risk her place with the King for a dalliance with any one of them. She would slit their throats first. He looked away._

_Dammit! Where was she? Suddenly, he knew where she had gone and was glad for the excuse to leave the ballroom. He walked through the silent galleries to his destination, not seeing the servants who paused in their work to acknowledge him. He came to a pair of large ornate doors. He pushed them open, oiled and silent and stood in the doorway._

_There was a single pool of light from candles set on a low table, the shadows deepening toward the corners and edges of the room. A figure was sitting on the thick carpet, leaning forward, balancing on elbows while peering at an open book. He walked forward, his boots making a dull thud against the parquet floor._

_She ignored him until he got closer and then she straightened, turned a page, still not looking at him and said, ‘I thought you are supposed to stay with the King.’_

_‘It’s not safe that you are here alone,’ he scolded her. What if I was some treacherous man intending you harm?’_

_‘Woe is unto you,’ she said absently, ‘me with my sword skills and all.’ She was slowly turning pages, ignoring his rebuke._

_‘Do you think I do not know your step?’ she asked, shaking her head and widening her eyes in mock disbelief at his foolishness._

_He gave a deep sigh of exasperation and dropped into a chair next to her, noticing the flask of wine and a glass on the table. He frowned at her, and she ignored that too and smiled knowingly. She had learned a few skills in disarming his annoyance. He shook his head at her but poured the wine._

_‘What are you reading?’ he asked, still peckish but drinking deeply from the glass._

_‘I found a book of Persian poetry. It must have been a gift.’ She was sitting up, drawing the book onto her lap._

_‘May I read one to you?’ she asked and didn’t wait for his reply. Her voice was pitched pleasantly low and musical. He liked listening to her read. She read first in the language of the poet and again, translating the poem so he would understand the meaning._

_‘Look,’ she said rising to her knees, balancing the book on his leg, and pointing to the richly colored illustration occupying a quarter of the page._

_‘The poet included this drawing. Is this gold leaf in the border?’ she was leaning forward to examine it closely. ‘Is it not beautiful?’_

_He looked down at her. Her first formal gown was a deep royal blue, highlighting the extraordinary color and iridescence of her blue eyes and a vivid contrast to her dark hair and fair skin. The dress was cut low in front and swept back baring her shoulders. The sepia tattoo of graceful symbols trailed across her shoulder and down her back before disappearing under her dress. Strands of chestnut hair were already loosening themselves from the jeweled pins and clasps employed to manage her unruly curls. She was not wearing any of the magnificent family jewelry, diamonds, rubies and sapphires, to which she was entitled. Around her neck was the simple gold locket Treville had given her for her birthday.  
At his quiet she looked up at him, the lights in her opalescent blue eyes dancing in the candlelight._

_‘Very beautiful,’ he said softly, smiling at her. ___

__> >>  
He rose from the chair, turned to leave and then stopped, looking back at the bookshelves. He traced a line along the books, finding the slender volume. He opened it to the correct page and studied the drawing, running his fingers lightly over it. He placed the book in his tunic and left the room._ _


	13. In the arms of angels...

The carriage bounced and swayed slowly down the road. The young man driving was carefully avoiding holes and ruts that would have bounced the occupants from roof to floor. Still, there was a continuous flow of grievances, in an unfamiliar foreign language, streaming out the window from the carriage compartment as proof of their discomfort. A single rider, armed with sword and musket, followed the carriage to the side, avoiding the dust kicked up by the horses. Behind them a line of traffic was forming.

As the carriage drew closer to the roadblock the voices inside the carriage grew louder, clearly ill-tempered and unreasonable. As the carriage slowed to stop, the door suddenly burst open and a small, round man, of Oriental descent, bounded angrily from the carriage, his voice shrill and waving his hands in agitation, startling the soldiers on duty. He was wearing what appeared to be formal dress in the manner of some eastern country – elaborately embroidered long flowing silk robe with wide cut fluttering sleeves, voluminous silk pantaloons of a vibrant color and high necked long silk tunic of a second vibrant color. Soft silk slippers were on his feet and spectacles were perched halfway down his nose. His black hair was pulled back tightly from his face and bound into a knot at the back of his head. He was rubbing his backside complaining unintelligibly to both the driver and rider. Then he spied the red-caped soldiers.

A broad grin split his round soft face, squeezing his dark slanted eyes shut. He threw up his hands in delight and the incomprehensible chatter in his native tongue increased in both volume and speed. He was thrilled to meet the King’s city guard. Bowing repeatedly and shuffling forward, he advanced on them, his silks ballooning around him like a great glossy cloud of color. He was half their size, twice as round and undaunted at being confronted by armed soldiers towering over him. As he got closer, they stepped back.

A tiny young woman appeared in the doorway of the carriage, dressed in billowing black pantaloons and black high necked, shapeless tunic – a decided contrast to the vividly colored man now eagerly approaching the bewildered soldiers.

‘Please, sirs,’ she translated brokenly, ‘my father extends joyful and most enthusiastic greetings to the soldiers of the King.’ The little man’s head bobbed like a cork in water flapping his small hands at her and then back to the soldiers.

One soldier looked at the rider, who was watching this display with a bored, disinterested air. At the soldiers’ questioning look, he shrugged. He was hired to accompany the carriage and knew nothing about its passengers. He handed the soldier the letter of instruction, bearing a noble seal. They could take up any questions with the nobleman. The soldier glanced at the letter and seal, looked back to Oriental man, who seemed to be dancing on tiptoes with excitement and peered around the small woman through the dirty window of the carriage. Small valises were on the floor and a few more unfamiliar garments. He drew his head back and looked down the road.

The line of delayed conveyances grew longer, impatient drivers and occupants muttering irritably. The soldier stepped away from the carriage and waved the flamboyant and annoying foreign man towards it, shooing him inside and closing the door. The little man immediately stuck his head out the window bumping heads with the soldier and chirping on, hands pressed together at his chin, beaming and bowing and nodding in farewell. The soldier thumped the side of the carriage and it moved away slowly, the lighted lantern swinging in the evening light. The odd assemblage continued down the road and soon the light winked out and the carriage was no longer visible.

>>

Henri Levesque was the third son of a middling noble family. His father was of the old school of nobility, a loving and dutiful husband, an attentive father, and a good lord to his tenants, mindful of his farmers and working alongside them as needs dictated. His sons grew strong, excelling in their studies and his youngest son had another talent - with paper, charcoal or paints. He was a gifted artist and for a time, Henri considered studying art in Paris. As the youngest, Henry was closest to his mother. She was a passionate gardener and he helped her in the extensive household gardens. She was known throughout the district for her potions, poultices, tonics and other remedies for treatments in illness or injury. If summoned, she would rise at night, awakening him to accompany her to help a wounded farmer, feverish child or a laboring woman.

He grew to be large man, well over six feet and very strong. He had shock of blonde hair, warm brown eyes and the easy confidence of a man who knew his capabilities. As the third son, he could not expect to inherit, but he was not troubled by this fact. As much as he loved his family and his home, he yearned to know more of the outside world. With his father’s blessing and a kiss from his tearful mother, he ventured out.

He joined Henry’s army and followed his King into war, distinguishing himself on the battlefield. He was brave and men followed him. At Amiens he was injured badly enough to require withdrawing from the front lines but remained to assist the surgeons and holy sisters in the care of wounded soldiers. He left the army with a decided limp and traveled to Marseille where he found work on the shipping docks and warehouses. It was there that he met a young man, hard-working and with a clear aptitude. There was almost twenty years separating them – nevertheless, they became friends. Both men read books, enjoyed a game of chess, and did not waste their money on excessive drink or cards. He recognized many exceptional qualities in the younger man – intelligence, ambition tempered with patience and natural leadership. He listened to his ideas for a business that, while licensed by the King, could be dangerous and dipped into the criminal underworld. But the young man had a plan and when asked to join him, Henri agreed without hesitation. The man he had met was Lucien Grimaud.

So, when Lucien came to him and asked him to find employment in the gardens of the palace and to report on a young woman - he readily agreed. He was happiest working his fingers in the soil. It was something of a joke between him and Lucien that wherever they had any dimension of ground Henri would start a tiny garden. 

‘Henri,’ Lucien said, pacing the ground outside the warehouse. ‘Will this do?’ he asked solicitously, winking at the second man who accompanied him. The three men were there with the sales agent, who was anxiously awaiting their answer as to the purchase.

He turned to the sales agent, ‘the main requirement for this acquisition is whether the yard is sufficient for Henri’s farm,’ he said with all seriousness. The agent looked confused – farming? In the middle of Paris?

It was clear that the young woman, on whom he was to collect information, was special to Lucien for reasons unrelated to her position in the palace. He watched Lucien read the first report and realized the man was in love with her. After that, he included, with his notes, drawings of his subject– reading a book, tending her plants, at her small desk, in the market, wading in a lake. When Lucien and Sophia finally came together – his reports were no longer needed. But, he continued to sketch her and to work in the gardens with her. He enjoyed the work and her company. They had become friends and Lucien depended upon him to help her – if ever she needed it. He never considered that what she would need from him was to bring her back from the dead.

Trouble appeared first in the form of a maid in the doorway of the stables, white-faced, breathless and bearing a frightening message – the King was poisoned and Rochfort had arrested the doctor and was overhead questioning him about Sophia. Alarmed, Henri penned a quick note, and pressed it into the hand of the stable boy.

‘Run!’ he said tautly, ‘go to Monsieur Grimaud as fast as you can.’ He watched for a moment as the boy raced away, thinking through the next few minutes. If Rochfort tortured the doctor, Henri had no doubt the man would say whatever Rochfort wanted him to say. Soldiers may already be sweeping through the palace and would enter the grounds searching for her. Courtiers and servants alike would shrink back, seeking invisibility to avoid any taint of association. No one would help her. Anyone shielding her would suffer her fate. Summary execution loomed.

He was not a man to panic. But he needed a plan – quickly. There wouldn’t be much time.

He hurried down the stable row to saddle two horses, his mind racing – should he ride to her apartments? How to escape the grounds? Which route? He was making and discarding ideas rapidly, searching for the best strategy that would get them away from the palace and through the city streets to Lucien. He would have the men to protect her and the means to get her speedily out of Paris.

To complicate matters, she had expected that day a noted Chinese doctor to visit her. Master Wei and his daughter Zhi Ruo had arrived and were already in the workroom, sorting through the cuttings he had brought to them. Were they in danger? He could see no reason why they would be harmed but…. He could not worry about that right now – he needed to concentrate on Sophia. He stepped to a large cupboard where he retrieved his sword and musket.

Suddenly - men were shouting and he rushed to the stable yard. He caught glimpses of soldiers running – they must be coming down the stairs from the rear of the palace. He had less time than he had thought. Master Wei appeared next to him frowning and chattering nervously. He turned to mount his horse.

He felt it first – the ground shuddering under his feet followed by a low rumble and he knew instantly what it signified. The thin dark line on the farthest edge of the park quickly thickened into a moving orderly mass of charging horses, their riders brandishing swords and muskets. They poured over a small hill and descended into the parkland – Lucien in the lead and riding hard. Henri dropped the reins and started to run, Master Wei following him.

The two men rounded the copse of trees, Henri keeping his eyes on Lucien. He saw him start to lean from the saddle, holding his arm to her as she ran towards him. A red guard soldier was very close, raising his musket with a Musketeer on his heels gun drawn and shouting. 

Muskets exploded, a burst of red, she dropped to the ground and Lucien’s terrible roar. Henri did not stop running nor did he try to follow the chaos that erupted in the ensuing minutes. He and Master Wei reached her and in one movement he thrust his sword and gun to Master Wei, lifted her in his arms, turned and ran. The battle behind him raged.

He burst into the workroom. Zhi Ruo had already cleared the table and laid a clean cloth over it, water was boiling in the fireplace, instruments were being lifted from boiling water and clean bandages were on the table. For the first time, Henri paused to feel her breath and listen for a heartbeat. Was she alive? No breath or pulse to tickle his cheek. He held his breath, closing his eyes to any distraction. And then he felt it, a tiny stuttering beat. He nodded to Master Wei and the two men set to work.

They did what they could. The wound was cleaned, cauterized and wrapped in clean bandages. She never stirred, but he could feel a faint pulse of life. He burned her bloodied clothes and the cloths they used and Zhi Ruo was setting the room to rights. For a moment he watched Master Wei grind and mix powders. He was preparing for the fever.   
Henri went to the stable and hitched horses to a carriage. He piled blankets on the carriage floor. Back in the workroom he started to lift her as gently as possible. Master Wei laid a hand on his arm, shaking his head, ‘she is too weak, she may not survive being moved,’ said Zhi Ruo, understanding her father’s unspoken concern.

‘Yes,’ agreed Henri, ‘it is possible. But she will definitely not survive the soldiers who come here looking for her.’ The small man and his daughter exchanged looks and nodded. Master Wei started to gather up what he would need.

Henri carried her gently to the carriage, laying her on the stacked blankets and covering her. Zhi Ruo got into the carriage with her father. Henri lifted the stable boy onto the seat and handed him the reins. He mounted the horse, tying the second horse to the back of the carriage and led the way slowly down the lane away from the palace. It was growing darker, a thin drizzle starting to fall.

>>

He heard hoofbeats and half turned in the saddle before he realized the sound was coming toward him. He held up his hand to stop the carriage and lifted his musket. He glanced toward the boy, who had a musket across his lap. They waited.

A single rider came into view, slowing his horse. A tall man wearing a long riding coat, a broad brimmed hat angled over his face. Paul de Vry rode closer, ‘you got through the roadblock,’ he said, relief showing in his tense expression. He had been waiting and watching in the shadows.

‘Quite a performance.’ The two men smiled at each other briefly. ‘Grammont’s seal was a nice touch,’ referring to the Chevalier turned pirate. 

Henri gave a short mirthless laugh, ‘Master Wei seemed to have them confused as to whether he was going to bow, shake their hands, or kiss them.’ Paul snorted at the memory of the prancing little man distracting the guards. 

‘How is she?’ he asked anxiously. 

Henri shook his head, ‘not good. We need to get her to the house.’ They turned their horses, the carriage lurching forward.

It was close to dawn when the two men stepped out onto the porch. The air was brisk after the light rain, the moon intermittently appearing as dark clouds passed over it, the sky beginning to fade from black to dark blue.

‘She’s hanging on,’ de Vry said, raking a hand through his hair, ‘it’s…difficult to watch.’ Henri nodded. The fever had seemed to subside, but Master Wei was not fooled. When it roared to life a few hours later, he was ready. The fever gripped and shook her in its teeth - sweat beading on her face, arms and chest as heated blood raced through her. Zhi Ruo washed her feverish body with cool cloths and coaxed her to sip water. Master Wei cleaned the wound repeatedly, changed poultices and bandages, mixed his medicines and brewed the medicinal tea.

Henri sank down on a stool. His injured leg throbbed painfully and he was stiff with exhaustion – more from tension than lack of sleep. He rubbed his face wearily. de Vry handed him a glass and poured wine.

‘Did you see Lucien?’ he asked. Paul nodded, ‘he wasn’t conscious. le Clerc couldn’t handle him and had to deal with it.’ He sighed heavily, ‘he believes she’s dead. They must be in Rouen by now. If he hasn’t already, le Clerc will set sail as soon as possible.’

Henri ran his hand over his mouth. It would be a long time before any message he sent would get to Lucien. He needed to focus about what came next. Where to take her? Were they still searching for her? Could he get a message to Treville or the Duchess or were they compromised? If she lived he would need a plan. If she lived.

He looked at Paul, ‘will you go back? There will be work to do.’ Paul nodded, ‘I’ll wait to hear from the captains. And if there’s a way to get message to him?’ He looked askance at Henri.

He hesitated. ‘I suggest we wait until we know the outcome here. If she lives, we need to move somewhere safe. Her recovery could be lengthy and …’ His voice trailed off. If she lived – that’s all he could think of now. He would worry about a message to Lucien later. If she lived. They had gotten this far – it was more than he would have thought possible.

His eyelids felt heavy and he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. He suddenly saw her as in a drawing he had done. She was wading in the shallows of a small lake, holding up her skirts, the hem of her white gossamer dress dragging through the water. Something or someone behind her had caught her attention and she had turned to look back over her shoulder. There must have been a breeze as her hair was drifting back from her face, curling and waving down her back. She had an enigmatic half-smile on her lovely face, the iridescence in her eyes winking in amusement. Who or what was she smiling at? Had Lucien been there that day? He could not remember.

It was Lucien’s favorite drawing and he had thought to make it into a portrait for him. Sleepily, he pondered the paints he would use and the size of the canvas. He might need her to sit for him to capture her eyes. If she lived…..


	14. Heaven's bend....

'What ravages of spirit conjure up this contemptuous rage...' (SMcLachlan)

 

Athos sat back from his desk and rubbed his face wearily. He looked at the half-filled paper in front of him- his report to Treville. Once again, he was pleading for the promised weapons, cannon, shot, and food. His soldiers were underfed and lacked firepower to fight the enemy. The nursing sisters had no supplies or medicines for his wounded soldiers. The situation was serious. None of the supplies had arrived. He got up, stretched and went outside.

He walked to watch Porthos leading the men in drills. Every day the men were looking more like soldiers and less like farmers and shopkeepers. A few had training in sword and gun and Porthos had placed them strategically in the company to advise those less experienced. Not for the first time did he think that Porthos would make a better general than the man giving him orders.

A rider was coming toward him, slowing to thread their horse between the tents. He looked back at the men and waited for the rider to draw closer. A messenger from Treville.  


The rider stopped and started to dismount, a young man or a youth from the size and shape he thought, facing away from him. He watched and then frowned slightly- there was something familiar about the movements. He stepped forward as the rider turned and pulled the cloak hood back. He swayed and sucked in his breath – widening his eyes in incredulity.

Iridescent blue eyes smiled at him and for a moment he couldn’t move, suspended between shock, disbelief, relief and joy. Then, in long strides he crossed the space between them grabbing her to him. He cupped her face, running his fingers over her features as though she was a mirage, ‘you’re…,’ he breathed ‘not dead.’

‘Not for lack of trying’ she laughed weakly, reaching up to touch his face, but her laugh caught in her throat as a soft sob, and he pulled her roughly against him. She buried her face and tears in his chest. He closed his eyes and tried not to crush her.

‘How?’ he asked softly not letting go of her. He should be thinking about his myriad questions and answers only she could provide, what he needed to say to her - but his mind was devoid of reason or practical matters and filled with her presence, her scent infusing his senses, the feel of her body against his, her tears wet against his neck.

‘Sophie,’ he murmured.

‘I’ll tell you,’ she whispered.

>>>

The shutters were open to the sultry night – the soft chittering sounds of insects pierced by the occasional call of a night bird. The air was moist with thick vegetation and pungent with the scent of flowers - jasmine, heliotrope, plumeria, hibiscus. A light breeze stirred the air - somewhere in the room, behind a screen or in the corner, a child pulled the rope that moved the fan back and forth. Someone was singing.

She hummed as she rubbed her hands together warming the oil she drizzled into her palms, her strong shoulders flexing as her fingers squeezed the tightly corded muscles of his legs and thighs. She tapped his shoulder lightly, and he rolled onto his stomach. She bent over him, leaning into his broad shoulders and back, pressing and massaging. She worked slowly down his torso, patiently encouraging the tense and strained muscles to relax under her strong fingers. There were new injuries since he had last been with her and she shifted her hands carefully across his damaged body. He grunted in both pain and relief. She reduced the pressure – fingertips hovering over his quivering skin - asking a question. He rolled over and touched her face.

He came to her island every few months, to refit his ships and replace dead or injured crew members. She noticed him in the tavern, watching her, his dark eyes enigmatic, his face severe and impassive. He took her hand and led her to the second-floor rooms. She stood in front of the mirror as he came up behind her gently pushing her chemise from her shoulders, running his hands over her warm brown skin and through her soft springy curling hair. She knew that look in a man’s eyes – when he was looking at her but seeing another - skin not the color of coffee, but fair and creamy, eyes not deep brown, but blue or green or hazel. He was not rough or abusive as many men were, but perfunctory and detached from the heated sensations and demanding needs of his body. He did not kiss her.  


He would fall asleep, but it never lasted. He was haunted in his dreams and awakened her with his silent weeping. She held him against her warm ample body, humming to him to soothe his restless mind.

He lay on his back, watching the moving shadows of the fan sweeping back and forth across the ceiling, the woman sleeping next to him. Unexpectedly, her image swam into his consciousness from deep memories – winking blue eyes and dark silky hair. How many months had it been? Or was it years? He couldn’t remember when he had last been in French ports. The war dragged on, his life a rhythmic sequence of stalking the enemy, seizing cargo, killing men and burning ships. He jumped from one ship to another within the fleet he and le Clerc led into the Atlantic, Caribbean and Mediterranean waters. He had no reason to return.

>>>

He strolled up the center of the street that ran the length of the coastal town. It was a Spanish settlement, streets named for Spanish explorers or kings, a large ornate church dominating the square. It’s large double wooden doors were hanging open, men carrying bundles of looted silver chalices, candlesticks, plates, crosses, statuary, tapestries and paintings. They left behind priests, beaten and unconscious.

A large tavern, its louvered doors thrown open to a wide yard littered with bodies, blood seeping into the dirt. The air was thick with smoke rising from burning buildings. All around him was the discordant screams and shouts of a settlement under attack, its residents fighting and dying. Looting was violent – the search for valuables - gold, silver, silks, wine - was frantic and destructive. Men and boys were being dragged into the streets, some killed outright and some begging for their lives, promising riches. Boys were bound to be used in servitude on the ships. Women cried and pleaded but were abused and assaulted wherever they were found – and either crawled away, bloodied and bruised, or died were they lay. Bodies hung from the balconies of multi-storied buildings along the length of the street. The stench of human blood and ordure– the timeless twin testaments of violence and death - permeated the air.

He came to end of the street and stared up at a large three story stately home. Glass fronted double doors stood firmly closed. On the veranda was an arrangement of chairs, small tables and a swing, suspended from the overhead beams, awaiting visitors and lemonade in the warm afternoon. The house must belong to a local official or magistrate he thought. He walked up the stairs and considered kicking in the door. Instead, amused, he lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall, listening to the deep sound reverberate in the foyer.

As curious as it was for him to knock, it was even more curious that a lady answered the door. She was well-dressed, complete with arranged hair, ear bobs and matching necklace. She smoothed her silk dress, smiled graciously and as though he was expected, she stepped aside for him to enter. Behind him – the cacophony of a plundered settlement raged. He closed the door behind him, muting the sound.

He walked into the drawing room, noting the silver tea and coffee service, candlesticks and plate. There were paintings hung and tapestries too. Some items were missing, carried off he thought - no doubt by the man of the house, the reckless fool who had brought a gentle woman to this heathen place – unmindful of and not caring what could happen to her. He was a selfish and cowardly husband – only thinking of his own desires and not protecting her. And now, in her greatest need, he had run away – abandoning her to the vicious and immoral men who would abuse her violently, destroy her beautiful home, steal everything of value, and murder her dreams. He hoped his men had found this husband.

She was standing in the middle of the drawing room and for a few minutes he thought she might offer him tea. She was twisting her handkerchief anxiously, glancing out the windows and back to him.

He leaned toward her, ‘you should hide,’ he said softly. He looked out the window and back to her. ‘They will be here soon,’ he advised. He continued walking through the drawing room, into the hallway, out the back door and into the yard.

He walked toward a pathway that led up a hillside to a place where he could see the entire settlement and the dock at which his boats were tied. In the distance were two of his ships, anchored and waiting for the men and their plunder. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the scene below. Smoke was increasing as more buildings started to burn. The settlement would soon be engulfed in flames.

Some would survive this assault. They would tell stories of the tall, muscular dark man who walked the street of the town under attack – carrying neither sword nor musket, and untouched – radiating an aura of power, uncommon strength and ruthlessness. They would describe his cold eyes, and heartless disinterest in the suffering of the victims he passed. They saw him as he leaned against a tree on the hillside overlooking their town, watching his men murder, pillage and rape. Stories were told and retold – and his legend grew.

From the end of the street, a woman’s scream reached him. He turned his gaze to the large home, smoke starting to rise. He sighed - she had not listened to him. She had not hidden herself. Perhaps she had wasted time trying to save some of her treasured possessions, valuing them more than her life.

He narrowed his eyes and set his mouth cruelly – they would learn to listen to him. They would learn to heed his word.

>>>

In the evening hours, the camp was quiet, men sitting around low fires in small groups, talking, playing cards or singing softly. In the medical tent, she sat next to a wounded soldier, balancing a small writing board on her lap. She dipped a cloth in cool water and gently wiped the young man’s face. She smiled at him and lifted the quill, ‘what else would you like to say?’ She finished his letter and carefully placed it with the others. She sat for a moment, fingers held lightly on the soldier’s neck feeling the hesitant pulse weaken and then still. She waited but there was nothing more. She looked up at the corpsman and nodded.

She walked toward Sister Inez. The nun was in the stores tent, staring at the mostly empty shelves, hands on hips. The good sister looked at her frowning in frustration and waved an impatient hand toward the missing supplies.

‘The Captain will send us what he can from his own stores,’ she said to the Sister. ‘He has entreated Paris for supplies.’

The nun looked at her, nodding, ‘God is not exactly providing. These men suffer needlessly.’

She widened her eyes in mock horror, ‘I thought it was my job to be irritable with God.’ Sister Inez laughed and then, remembering, she pulled a sealed letter from her pocket, handing it to her. She gasped softly in anticipation and took the letter, turning to walk outside to read it in privacy. 

The air was cool and the breeze softened the iron taste and smell of blood that permeated this part of the camp. There were no clouds to obscure the brilliance of winking stars in the night sky, the moon a huge white orb. A good night to attack she thought idly – but they had little shot and no cannon – so how exactly was the King’s army to wage a war - day or night?

She broke the seal and scanned the letter eagerly. The iridescence in her blue eyes dimmed with disappointment – there was no news. No information of letters or messages received. She sat very still, running her fingers over the page, seeing nothing and trying to stem the flow of melancholy seeping through her. She looked up at the night sky.

Where are you? she thought. Why do you not come back to me? Tell me where you are, and I will come there.


	15. War and other remembrances

‘You can't possibly judge your ability to control something until you've experienced the extremes of its capabilities.’ (Richard Russo Empire Falls)

Four years earlier…….

Captain Treville sat next to the window watching the man he was to meet wind his way through the traffic in the street. Men greeted him as he walked, offering their handshake or calling out to him – he acknowledged them with easy affability. He was well-liked, respected and a leader in this world along the river front and in the seaports.

The young man entered the tavern, pausing to look around and spotted Treville. He threaded his way through the tables and sat in a chair positioned so he could watch the door. Another man, who had walked in behind him sat at another table.

He’s careful thought Treville studying the man sitting opposite him, recollecting a faint memory of him. He was tall, well-muscled, dark hair sweeping his collar. His face was a series of angles – strong jaw and chin, high prominent cheek bones and brows framing deep-set hazel eyes with glinting gold highlights. His gaze was steady, curious and cautious, but without suspicion or hostility. Not yet.

The woman arrived with wine and two glasses. The young man looked at the Musketeer captain asking solicitously, ‘do you prefer ale?’ Treville shook his head and accepted the glass of wine. 

Lucien Grimaud sat back and regarded the captain of the Musketeers. He lifted his hand acknowledging that Treville had asked for this meeting and he would speak first. Treville glanced at the man at the other table and back to Lucien, ‘Is he for me?’ Lucien gave a small smile and shook his head but said nothing. He waited patiently.

‘I have not been here in a long time,’ Treville remarked as he gazed out at the bustling activity of the street. ‘The commerce here has increased substantially.’

‘The King seems to appreciate his gains,’ Lucien reminded him that it was both royal decree and permits that directed most of the business of rivermen, sailors and their captains on the oceans of the world and the rivers into France. The rest was directed by men like him.

‘She comes here?’ Treville asked, waving his hand toward the street that fronted the waterfront docks on the river. The road was teeming with men driving wagons teams loaded with cargo, dockworkers, and rivermen. It was a rough crowd for a young woman.

Lucien followed Treville’s gaze out the window. ‘I do not encourage it. I have security for her.’ Treville nodded. He was aware that Lucien guarded her closely. But there was still a danger.

Lucien glanced at the Musketeer captain and smiled ruefully, ‘she enjoys eluding my guards. She thinks it’s a game.’ He laughed, ‘she has managed to evade me.’  
‘She wanted to collect plants unaccompanied,’ he added, ‘it was a source of considerable disagreement between us.’

Was the glimpse into their private life intentional? Or did he mean to reassure Treville that he was a sensible man, one that could be trusted with her? Apparently, he had better success getting her cooperation and Treville felt a flash of resentment.

Treville shook his head, ‘she can be foolish! How could she think …’

‘She craves the solitude, I don’t believe she means to cause worry,’ Lucien interjected. ‘I now have a trusted man accompany her and she accepts him. Apparently, he doesn’t talk too much,’ he said drily and poured more wine. ‘Henry Levesque – you may know him or his family?’

‘Yes – both him and the family,’ Treville said, surprised that the two men were acquainted. ‘He was a fearsome soldier. I believe he distinguished himself at Amiens.

Lucien nodded smiling, ‘He is also a fearsome gardener.’ Treville chucked, ‘that I did not know about him.’ They sat for a moment in fragile amiability.  
For a moment Treville thought about her need for solitude. She chafed at the formality of the palace and the suffocating curiosity of the court, but he had not understood her actions as reflections of these feelings. But Lucien had understood her. He felt a second flash of resentment.

‘She flaunts many rules of the social order,’ Treville said. ‘Disregarding her safety is one among many.’ Her relationship with the bastard son of a prostitute was another example.

‘Flaunt? I would not use that term,’ Lucien said thoughtfully, ‘it seems best to not impose rules that make no sense to her. She has a different empathy for the world.’

Treville studied the man across from him. Lucien saw her in a way that he did not. And - Lucien did not judge her. How must that feel to her? Raised by an Ottoman soldier in a foreign country and returned a decade later to her native country, she struggled to conform to the expectations of her birth and rank. He was as guilty as others in assuming she would obey, without question, the rules governing aristocratic daughters. He looked at Lucien as though for the first time. He was beginning to realize that he may have underestimated this young man. There was a great deal he did not know or comprehend about him.

He had not expected him to be so well-spoken, thoughtful and educated. Who had seen to his schooling? He thought Lucien had grown up close to Royamount and the d’la Croix estates but had not thought to seek information about him from Sister Agatha. Idly he remembered that Gatien had spent time hunting in those woods. He felt a sense of grudging respect for the man – he had come a long way from his origins and did not show any of grasping aspiration to be accepted into noble ranks beyond his reach. The young man had a presence about him that spoke of intelligence, skills and capability. He was not arrogant, but confident. He might even acknowledge that there was much to like about him. But like him or not – he, and his life, were unsuitable for Sophia. Their liaison could not continue.

‘I expect you have some idea of what I want for her,’ Treville decided it was time to get to the point. ‘I wanted to meet you and hope to arrive at an understanding.’

The young man’s eyes flickered briefly at him, but there was no other visible reaction. ‘An understanding?’ repeated Lucien quietly. ‘Permit me to speak candidly Captain.’ Treville shrugged and nodded.

‘If, by - an understanding – you mean that I am to give her up, then we can stop right now and not waste either of our time. I will not give her up,’ he said firmly.  


‘However,’ he added, ‘I will agree not to marry her.’ Treville raised his brow in surprise and widened his eyes. Lucien smiled at him, ‘she has asked me several times. She can be quite tenacious.’ 

‘I am not surprised,’ Treville muttered. ‘I take no pleasure in pointing out to you the reasons why you are unsuitable for her – for a young woman of her birth and rank.’

Lucien nodded, eyes glinting in amusement, ‘these things do not matter to me – I love her despite her birth or rank,’ his voice dripping with irony. ‘You already know her attitude. Perhaps being raised in a foreign land prepared her for a different life.’

Treville shrugged dismissively, ‘what does it matter? She is here now and assuming the responsibilities of her estates and title. Whether she likes it or not, the rest follows. She must learn to adapt.’

‘Do you believe you can persuade her to give me up?’ Lucien asked curiously.

‘I think you can dissuade her.’

‘Ah – you want me to abuse her sufficiently to turn away from me – for me to do what you are unable to do.’  
‘If you care about her….’

‘About her? Or, about your belief that she would be happier without me?’ a tint of challenge had crept into Lucien’s voice. ‘Do you believe we just go out and choose who we love?’

‘I know we cannot always have what we want to choose for ourselves. And, we learn to live with that fact.’

‘A resigned view of the world,’ remarked Lucien.

‘A realistic view of the world,’ countered Treville. Silence fell between the two men. Lucien stared out the window. He glanced back at the Musketeer.

‘I cannot do what you ask. You have seen how it is between us. I doubt she would believe it anyway,’ he dropped his eyes for a moment. ‘I know I would not,’ he finished softly.

He had never seen them together – yet here, even in her absence, he felt like an intruder. He sensed the bond that had survived and thrummed between them, inviolate, across continents, oceans and years of separation. Their reunion had not been a discovery, but a return to a corporeal connection that encircled and sheltered them – profound and tangible. He feared it might be unbreakable.

‘This will not end here,’ Treville said evenly. ‘You understand that at least.’

Lucien nodded and looked at Treville, with a steady and steely gaze. A clear warning flickered in his eyes, ‘We understand.’

>>>>>>>>>>

Four years later...

It was that time of day he favored - when the light of day begins to dim as it draws toward evening - as though the restless day had finally exhausted itself and was settling into stillness and quiet. Outside his rooms the business of war raged throughout the hallways and offices of the palace, but inside it was a din heard at a distance. 

Treville sat in his ministerial chair – substantial and elegant – studying a portrait across from him. A young woman, slender and straight, a half-smile of amusement on her generous well-shaped mouth, golden chestnut hair waving back from her face. Intelligence, confidence and challenge gleamed from her large flashing blue eyes. He sighed heavily and dropped his eyes from hers. He was the soldier, but she had always had the stronger will.

He reached for the flask of wine and stopped. He sat motionless and then set the flask down carefully. He glanced toward the glass doors that opened onto the terrace extending the length of the building. He thought they were locked.

‘Who are you?’ he asked quietly. ‘What do you want?’

A tall cloaked figure emerged from the corner shadows walking forward on silent feet, pushing back the hood to reveal his face. Gold flecked hazel eyes, wolfish mouth, strong jawline and brows, dark hair brushing his shoulders. Treville stood up. The two men stared at each other.

‘Grimaud’


	16. Coming home...

‘…you can grieve your heart out and in the end, you are still where you are. All your grief hasn't changed a thing. What you have lost will not be returned to you. It will always be lost. You're left with only your scars to mark the void. All you can choose to do is go on or not. But if you go on, it's knowing you carry your scars with you…’ (CFrazier, Cold Mountain)

>>>>>

The estate church was set in an oak grove, under a towering tree, its great spreading branches shading the stone building from the sun’s glare. It was an ancient building, a steep roof, double wooden doors and a cemetery to the side that extended around the back. Singing could be heard.

The man sat within the grove, watching the doors. It was a warm day, the buzzing of flies and other insects filling the air – in between bursts of Christian voices raised in supplication, praise or guilt.

The singing stopped, the doors opened, and parishioners drifted out, greeting the priest and each other, lingering to chat with neighbors. Small groups of families or friends ambled along the pathways leading from the church toward their homes. There would be no one attending services from the manor house. There was no one left to attend Sunday services. The priest turned back into the church. The man waited until the last of the parishioners were out of sight. He stood up.  


The priest walked up the aisle of the stone building, sunlight streaming in through windows set the length of the sanctuary. Suddenly, he paused, sensing someone behind him. He turned but saw no one. He hesitated, taking a step forward and then called, ‘Hello? Is someone there?’ Silence.

The sound of a booted foot on stone and a shadow fell through the doorway onto the floor. A man stepped forward, dressed in a dark cloak, broad brimmed hat shading his face. The priest inhaled sharply but managed to not cross himself in fear. He felt a sudden chill in the sun filled room. The man removed his hat.  


He was a dark man – dark clothing, dark hair, dark fathomless eyes, several days of dark stubble on his sculpted cheeks framing a sensual wolfish mouth. The filtered light illuminated fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Ironic thought the priest absently, these lines were termed laugh lines - but on this man’s face there was no hint of amiability. He did not smile.

He was tall, broad in the chest and shoulders, his tailored clothing underscoring a muscled body. He made the contradictory impression of extraordinary brute strength and graceful elegance. He looks familiar thought the priest – but he could hardly be a local. He would have remembered this man. He collected himself, ‘Can I help you?’

The man was looking curiously around the church, settling his gaze on the figure on the cross over the stone altar. Now he looked back at the priest and said, ‘where is she?’ His voice was deep, soft, an educated voice, melodic.

‘Where is who?’ asked the priest, puzzled.

‘Sophia d’la Croix,’ his voice barely audible. ‘She is not in the family vault. Where is she buried?’

‘Buried?’ gasped the priest. ‘Why would you think the lady would be buried? Yes, she was quite ill for a long time, but she survived – bless the Lord. A miracle!’ The priest crossed himself in tribute to his God and for protections as might be needed now.

The man was silent – his face carved from stone. His eyes bored into the priest, flickering with an unasked question. What did this man want to know? Perhaps he was worried about something else?

‘The child is buried here,’ the priest offered trying to be helpful. ‘Perhaps you would like to see the grave?’ he asked, not sure what else the dark man might want from him. ‘I did the baptism - as Madame insisted.’

The man stood motionless. ‘A child…’ he whispered.

‘A girl,’ the priest said. ‘I am sorry to tell you this sad news. Are you a friend of the family?’ For a few more seconds the man stared at the priest – not moving. He seemed to not be breathing.

‘I’m sorry,’ the priest said again, hurrying to add, ‘you are taken by surprise at this news. May I offer you a glass of water? You thought she….’ He got no further as the man interrupted him.

‘Where is she?’ he whispered hoarsely.

‘I do not know, she….,’ the priest started to say. The man stepped toward him grasping the front of his robe and pulling him to his granite face, his lip curling cruelly.

‘She was at the abbey, ‘said the priest hastily, ‘but she left there some time ago.’ He tried to shrug his shoulders but found it a difficult maneuver with his cassock gripped and twisted. His shoulders slumped.

‘She may have returned to Paris,’ he made a tiny wave his hands. ‘I really don’t know.’ His voice dwindled away. He gaped helplessly at the man holding him slightly off his feet.

The man released him, and he stumbled back. He looked down at his crushed cassock, frowning and brushing with his hands to straighten it and collect himself. He raised his head to deliver a sound scolding at mistreating a priest and stopped. The man was gone.

>>>

The house was still and silent. He walked the long hallway on the second floor to her rooms. The canopied bed was covered with a sheet as was the upholstered furniture. The musty air was still – other than a maid occasionally tidying the room – no one had moved through this room, or the rest of the house, for a long time. He sat in the lone chair and closed his eyes….

_…they were soaking wet from the sudden spring downpour of rain, running up the stairs and at the top, she turned in front of him, breathless, her face flushed and blue eyes taunting, walking backwards and pushing his coat from his shoulders, unbuttoning his shirt, tugging at the waistband of his trousers, tiny fires sparking as her fingers grazed his skin, laughing as he looked to see if a maid was in the hallway – so modest she teased him. He narrowed his dark eyes, reaching to grab her and tossing her over his shoulder, striding into the bedchamber and dumping her on the bed, pulling off his boots and dragging her hips toward him, pushing up her skirts while she shrieked in laughter… ___

Alive – she is alive. There had been a child. He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, hands pressed to his tearing eyes. His stood and paced restlessly, his mind chaotic with memories - racing towards her, reaching for her hand, the shot and she crumbled to the ground blood flowing from the wound in her chest, Athos…... Then darkness, waking on the ship out to sea. The wound should have been mortal, but she survived. The pain would have been terrible and then fever. She had needed him. Losing a child. The child he had not known she carried. She had needed him, and he had not been there. She had needed him – desperately – and he had not been there. Years without a word from him. The pain that ripped through him took his breath away and almost drove him to his knees. What had she been told? He knew her thoughts - why he had not come for her? why had he abandoned her? 

>>>

The room was still and silent. He glanced toward the glass doors that opened onto the balustrade running the length of the building. He thought they were locked.  


‘Who are you?’ he asked quietly. ‘What do you want?’ 

A cloaked figure emerged from the shadows of the room walking forward on silent feet. Treville stood up. The two men stared at each other.  
‘Grimaud’

‘Bad day?’ the man asked.

‘It’s been awhile,’ remarked Treville. ‘I thought you had drowned somewhere.’

Grimaud barked a mirthless laugh, ‘I missed you too Jean-Armand. But I don’t think you’ve missed the money I’ve sent to your war chest.’

‘No,’ Treville nodded in agreement, ‘you do have your uses Lucien.’ He watched as Grimaud’s lip twitched in anger at his rude dismissal. He studied the man as he walked to his desk. The last time he had seen Grimaud was in a tavern near the river wharfs. That meeting had not gone well. He had little doubt this encounter would be much better.

The years at war had left their mark - the harsh elements of sun and sea had deepened the lines around Grimaud’s eyes and mouth. He was battle hard, somehow bigger and more muscled, his former grace now altered to stealthy movements used to stalk his victims. There was a new scar at the edges of his left brow, the wolfish mouth set in a grim line. The dark eyes were empty of the spark that used to glitter with spirit, ambition and amusement. Dead eyes looked back at him, sparking only in rage or violence.

How could it be otherwise thought Treville? Four years ago, the woman he loved was killed in front of him – or so he believed. War was declared, and he had gone to sea with his captains and his fleet of privateers and pirates. This man would be fearsome to see at the end of a sword or musket. He had heard the stories of Grimaud and his crews. Did he consider himself to have any responsibility for what had happened to him? No - he had no sympathy for Grimaud or what tormented his soul.

‘I know why you are here,’ Treville said quietly, ‘I won’t tell you where to find her.’ He looked at Grimaud. ‘It was a miracle she survived. I credit your man for saving her life and it was a long time for her to recover….’

‘At whose fault – the King _betrayed_ her! _You_ betrayed her! Where were you when she needed your protection?’ Grimaud’s temper flared quickly.

Treville dropped his eyes and did not answer. He had not been there. He had not anticipated the degree of Rochforts’ villainy or seen the threat to her. He had failed to protect her. He looked up into the simmering pool of unconcealed anger that filled Grimaud’s dark eyes. This reckoning had been a long time coming.

‘You would not agree to let her come to me because you thought I was a danger to her. Where were you when her life was threatened?’>/p>

'I had my duty…’

_‘Your duty…your honor_ …to an incompetent King and a sadistic madman who would have summarily executed her!’ Grimaud snarled, squeezing his hands into fists and gritting his teeth. ‘ _Athos shot her_!’ he hissed.

‘We don’t know if it was Athos or the Red Guard soldier,’ Treville replied, keeping his tone even. ‘We’ll never know…and it doesn’t matter now. She’s alive. She has a new life.’

‘It matters to me - it will always matter to me. Where is she?’

‘Lucien – it doesn’t matter to her. She would never blame Athos. The circumstances that day…’ he trailed off. He looked at Grimaud, ‘you know she would never blame Athos.

Do you believe yourself to be the same man she knew four years ago?' Treville asked grimly, 'I have heard the stories.'

‘No,’ he said coldly, ‘I am not the same man. How could I be? Are you?’ He was pacing in front of the desk, body stiff with the fury now coursing through him.

This is who you really are thought Treville - for a fleeting moment seeing the abandoned and abused boy staring hollowly through Grimaud’s dead eyes - every fiber of his being laced with that which had made him. This man stoked a crucible of rage that had fueled his endurance to survive abject cruelties and his vengeance. She did not know this man.

‘Until a few days ago I thought she was dead- killed and abandoned by the men who swore to protect her and now I find that these same men conspire to keep me from knowing the truth - she lives. He placed his hands on the desk, leaning toward Treville his voice menacing, ‘although the child she was carrying did not live. Were you relieved when our child died? My child? Did you let it happen?’ Grimaud leaned closer menacing, ‘or did you murder the child yourself?'

Treville felt a tremor – how had Grimaud known about the child? What else did he know? The message from the abbey came in the middle of the night and he had ridden hard to get there, terrified she would die before he arrived. She had barely survived - delirious with fever, weeping inconsolably – and whispering Lucien's name.

‘Perhaps it is fortunate for you that I am not the same man, or I might kill you here.’ Grimaud straightened, breathing deeply and took a step back. His face seemed carved from rock.

‘I was prepared to be patient – for her sake – to wait and try to win your confidence in me – to see me as more than the bastard son of an army whore – to see me as a man who loved her, and would take care of her, protect her,’ Grimaud’s voice broke – he now knew his cause was hopeless. ‘But you will never see me otherwise.’

‘You will never be able to understand us. You will never accept that she chooses me – over your nobles - she chooses _me_.’

‘Not when she learns of what you have done – who you have become,’ Treville said heatedly, desperation creeping into his voice. What if Grimaud was right? 

‘She will never accept you now!’ Treville snapped. ‘Go back to your ships and your whores! _Leave her alone!’_

‘And what will she think about your lies?’ Grimaud turned to Treville, twisting his mouth into a grim smile. ‘Do you think I do not know what you hide from her?’ Treville stiffened - what did this man know?

'Whatever you think you know - I cannot believe you would hurt her with half-truths and lies,' charged Treville.

_'I have never hurt her. I have never abandoned her. I have never lied to her!_ ,’ Grimaud roared at him, and stepped towards him hand reaching for his musket.

Voices from the hallway signaled the presence of men outside the door – Porthos and Athos. Treville turned toward the door expectantly at the knock and the door opening... Treville looked back at Grimaud. The man was gone. He dropped into his chair and rubbed his face with a calloused hand. His mind was muddled with anger, shock, disbelief – and fear. Grimaud would not stop looking for her. He saw those dead eyes again - he was not the man she remembered.

‘Captain?’ asked Porthos – who never seemed to realize that he wasn’t his captain anymore. Both Musketeers were frowning at him, unsure of why their minister and commander looked distraught. Treville straightened his tunic and sat upright, steeling his roiling emotions and opened the document box. He pulled out a document and tossed it across the desk to the two men, saying sternly, ‘We need to discuss your report.’


	17. Every dark purpose

‘There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music.’ (John Keats)

>>>

In the early pre-dawn hours, a cloaked man led a horse pulling a cart down the center of the city street, the cart swaying under its load, wheels bumping and grinding on the cobblestones. He moved under an archway and into a small plaza. There was a communal water pump at one corner, a series of narrow rutted streets converging at the open area. A woman was sitting on a barrel facing the archway and holding a farming hoe across her lap. As he drew close she stood up and watched him carefully. He stopped the horse in front of her, unhitching the wagon and leading the horse from the traces.

‘Is that supposed to frighten the city guard?’ he asked the woman, pointing with his chin to the hoe, cynical amusement flashing in his dark eyes.

‘I know how to make it hurt,’ she replied boastfully, brandishing it at him. ‘What’s this?’ she asked suspiciously indicating the cart with the hoe.

The man stared at her and then looked beyond her to the narrow and dilapidated buildings leaning ominously over the dirty streets - potholes filled with dank water, the air foul with the smells of rotting food, unwashed bodies and sickness. He could see her, striding down the street, bag over her shoulder, delivering instructions to the men driving the wagons with food or supplies, organizing the lines of people waiting for her and the Sisters. He had never liked her working in these neighborhoods – he feared for her safety and health. But when had any of them - Treville, Athos or him - been able to stop her from doing what she thought necessary.

‘What’s in there might be useful,’ he said. The woman was looking under the cloth covering, her eyes widening at the contents of the wagon.

‘Where did you get this?’ she asked looking at him in amazement.

‘Found it on the side of the road,’ he laughed mirthlessly, tipped his hat to her and walked his horse back out the archway.

>>>>

There was a soft knock and a woman entered the room. Henri smiled at her and stood up to greet her. Paul DeVry stood as well, still wearing his long riding coat and removing his broad brimmed hat. He waited while Henri greeted the woman, ushering her into the room.

She was tiny, barely as tall as Henri’s breastbone, curling blond hair haloing her face. Her face was no longer that of a girl or even a young woman. But her figure was still trim, her skin smooth and creamy – if there were a few more lines around her wide blue eyes and rosebud mouth. 

He lowered his head to allow her to brush his cheek with her lips, ‘Henri,’ she said smiling, ‘it’s very good to see you again.’

‘It’s been a long time Flea,’ he replied straightening up. ‘You look beautiful as ever.’ She laughed – a lovely tinkling sound, waving her hand dismissively and stepped toward Paul holding out her hands to him.

‘You get more handsome every time I see you,’ she said feigning a coquettish air and fluttering her eyelashes. He smiled and kissed her cheek.

Another woman entered behind her and stood hesitantly at the door. She wore the simple dark dress of a country woman and a plain bonnet. Henri frowned and looked back at Flea.

‘You may not remember Claudette,’ Flea said to him. He shook his head, studying the woman. There was something familiar about her face, but he could not place it.

‘Suzette’s sister,’ said Flea. ‘Years ago, she came to Paris looking for her sister.’ Now he remembered. But Suzette had not gone missing – she had been murdered, presumably by her lover Vadim. No one ever learned the whole story.

‘When I came to find Suzette, Monsieur Grimaud was very kind to me. I have not forgotten it,’ the country woman spoke simply and stood calmly. Henri nodded his acceptance that she be admitted and waved his hand to the table and chairs in the middle of the room. He poured wine and passed the glasses, settling into his chair.

‘So, do we know who is helping him?’ Henri asked Flea. It was Claudette who replied to him.

‘Labarge for one,’ said Claudette. Henri stared at her frowning in disbelief and Flea nodded. ‘This is why Claudette is here – to give you this information.’

‘But how is that possible? He’s dead – killed by Musketeers.’

‘I come from the same village as Labarge,’ said Claudette. ‘His family lives there still and his brothers are very much alive and now in Paris. They seek revenge for their brother’s death.’ She did not touch the wine, but sat straight and still in the chair, hands folded in her lap. Henri’s eyes rested on her for a moment.

‘Brothers – more than one? Heaven help us. Or heaven help them,’ muttered Henri, thinking of the dimension of revenge the Labarge brothers would inflict upon the Musketeers.

‘One twin brother and one younger brother,’ Claudette supplied further details on the Labarge family. ‘It’s their mother who has urged them to seek vengeance for her son’s death.’

‘Good grief - twins,’ remarked Henri, ‘Who else?’

‘Some of Saracen’s former associates,’ said Flea, ‘also a few very bad sell swords, former soldiers, some refugees - it’s a motley bunch. Everyone with a grievance or a cause seems to be looking for a means to seek their revenge.’

‘But he is not using any of your men,’ said Flea, ‘nor has he come to the Court looking for men.’

‘Feron’s purposes are also at work, and now Gascon – the King’s brother is here. Feron controls the Red Guard.’ Every dark purpose, thought Henri unhappily, with Lucien mixed between it all – what a mess.

‘The grain….?’ asked Paul. Flea barked a short laugh, ‘just a plot by Feron to steal and resell the grain again – a favor to Beaufort – as he had huge gambling debts. Lucien supplied the wagons. There were two deaths, and Lucien is blamed for both.’

Paul and Henri exchanged glances. Henri nodded and sighed. He knew Lucien had killed the wagon master. He also knew he had not killed the grain master. That had been Feron’s man – to keep the nobleman, Beaufort, in line – to make him afraid that the same could happen to him. Lucien had not cared about the misconception – and that told Paul a great deal about Lucien’s state of mind.

But the wagon master had betrayed him – and in their world – betrayal was the worst offense a man, or woman, could commit. Justice was swift and merciless. Lucien would deal with the betrayal as he would with any man - he did not employ others to deliver his justice – he did it himself. He knew the value of his word, of showing his strength and control over all he commanded – the necessity of sending a message. The fact that the wagon master may not have known Lucien was his master would not make any difference. He would have acted regardless. It was likely, before this was over – that there would be more deaths.

‘I must go,’ said Flea. The two women stood, and Henri walked them to the door. Flea turned to him looking up into his face earnestly. 

‘I want to help him – there are others who want to help him,’ she said. ‘He has friends.

‘If you see him or he comes to you….’ Henri started to say, looking down at the tiny blond woman.

Flea laid a hand on his arm, ‘I will either hog-tie him myself or find the biggest man I can to knock him senseless!’ she smiled at him. He laughed, kissed her cheek, and watched her walk away. 

Henri walked to the window and watched the two women climb into a carriage. He rubbed his stubbled cheek. He had not slept well since he first learned Lucien had finally left ship in Marseille and had immediately vanished, not making contact with anyone. It had been several weeks and the first he had learned of his whereabouts came from a palace agent reporting that he had been seen in Feron’s apartments.

The two men left the office, walking down the stairs and entering the tavern choosing a table near a window. A serving girl brought bowls of steaming stew, bread and ale. It was late in the day and the tavern was filling, men nodding to them, some looking askance but knowing better than to inquire about something that was not their business.

The business - thought Henri. Lucien had controlled and tempered all their actions with his singular focus on protecting their business. While their enterprise was sanctioned by the King, they balanced on a narrow border between legal and illegal and Lucien was careful to avoid attracting unwanted attention. But now it was Lucien himself whose actions were out of control and un-tempered. He couldn’t even be found.

Henri glanced out the window. The day was turning to night. Wagons were lined up, parked and waiting for the next day’s work. Men were filling the tavern for drink, a game of cards, a woman. He usually liked this time of day – when he, Paul, Lucien, Grammont, le Clerc, or other captains in town came together for a meal and a review of the day. Sailors and rivermen were good story tellers and there was always an embellished version of an old tale and plenty of wine to enliven the evening. Plans would be set for the next day and Lucien would finalize orders. Sometimes a woman would pass by, catch a man’s eye and he would excuse himself as good-natured teasing and denouncements of his manhood followed him up the stairs to the second floor.

If Lucien had been there they might have strolled to the docks, visited with a river captain and smoked quietly as they watched the river move silently past. He would clap the two men on their shoulders and move off to be with his lady.

But, over four years ago, the man’s life had exploded in a single musket shot. Her life had been saved and they had hidden her at the abbey. She would be safe there and have the care she needed to recover. He and Henri returned to Paris to send messages of her survival to Lucien and manage the warehouses and goods flowing into Paris.

But the messages never got to their destination. Lucien had disappeared into the war – he moved from ship to ship, stayed out of ports, slipped in and out of crews, stayed for weeks or months at a time in the West Indies. Even the captains lost track of him until he appeared on their quarter deck. No one was sure any messages reached him. He had gone to sea with his grief – which altered into a corrosive burn of rage and desire for revenge.

Paul signaled the serving girl to bring wine and more stew. He waited for her to deliver the food and drink and then turned to Henri. 

‘If its Musketeers he wants dead, why does he just not kill them or the one he wants the most – their Captain? Why all the rest of it? Paul asked, ‘it doesn’t make sense.’

Henri sat back in the chair and lifted his chin to the wine flask and glasses. ‘If we are actually going to talk about this – I will need another drink,’ he said wearily.

‘We must find him, he needs to know she lives. It would bring an end to this madness,’ said Paul, pouring wine and handing a glass to Henri.

The older man shook his head, ‘that won’t stop this – whatever this is. Sophia wouldn’t want any of it – and he knows that,’ he shook his head.

‘I expect he’s been to the estate and that means he must know by now that she lives,’ reasoned Henri, ‘he is not here, giving orders to 50 men to search France for her – which is what he would be doing if he was in his right mind.’

‘He’s out there going from one hacked up mess to another – he doesn’t care if any plan of Feron or Labarge or Saracen or whomever succeeds – the bedlam is enough for him.’ He had seen it before - in the ranks of soldiers - where men nursed their fevered memories of being wronged and humiliated, wreaking their vengeance as opportunity arose.

Henri shook his head, ‘There may be someone who can help us – and him. I’ve sent a message.’

‘Who?’ asked Paul.


	18. All that glitters...

Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience- or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. (Jane Austen)

 

_‘Where are we going?’ she asked laughing. He was holding her hand, leading her through the gallery. The house was dark, servants out of sight and silent.  
‘I want to show you something,’ he said, golden highlights in his eyes shining at her. He lifted the candelabra higher, throwing shadows on his face, making him look darkly handsome and mysterious._

_‘Not afraid of a few shadows, are you?’ he teased. She blew out her cheeks at him. ‘Who or what would there be for me to be afraid of?’ she asked archly. He grinned and pulled her after him._

_They came to tall wide ornately carved and gilded double doors. He released her hand and pushed the doors open into an immense darkened and empty room. It extended the length of the house, ceilings stretched high above them into the dark. It was a ballroom._

_‘I didn’t know there was a ballroom in this house,’ she was delighted – looking up at the chandeliers, gleaming in the shadowed room. They walked forward, the room appearing before them in the candlelight and disappearing behind them. One wall was lined with floor to ceiling mirrors, catching the candle light and multiplying it – hundreds of tiny fires flickering in the reflective surfaces down the dark room. Richly upholstered chairs and chaises lined the gold silk covered wall on the opposite side - casting a yellowed glow upon the highly polished floor. Windows were set at intervals along the wall, a light rain falling, and the wet surfaces of the glass bent the light into small pools of light._

_‘It’s wonderful – a fantasy,’ she murmured, raising her arms and twirling slowly in the barely lit room, watching the mirrors catch and repeat her movements and the sparkle of her diamonds. She could imagine the room filled with dancers, a shimmering kaleidoscope of ladies in colorful dresses of glittering satin and silk, the brilliance of their jewels echoing in the mirrored surfaces._

_He walked to a chaise in the center of the room and set the candelabra on the floor creating a single pool of light from which shadows grew darker towards the edges and corners of the room. He took her hand walking backwards drawing her toward the chaise, pulling her down next to him pillowing her head on his shoulder and tilting her chin to look up. She gasped._

_Hundreds or perhaps thousands of tiny brilliant lights sparkled and winked at them from the ceiling and within the recesses of the ornate gilded coffers, reflecting tiny flames and refracted lights from the mirrors and the candelabra below. It was as though they were looking up at a multitude of sparkling jeweled lights._

_‘What is it?’ she asked eyes wide in delight._

_‘Tiny crystals,’ he answered, twining his fingers through hers._

_There were no sounds except their quiet voices. She felt removed from the world – enclosed in an enchanted circle of light in the shadowed room. He was a strong and secure presence, his muscled shoulder pillowing her head, his long fingers entwined with hers, lying next to the hard length of his body. She felt the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, his chest rising and falling with his breathing._

_‘It’s beautiful– only us and fairy magic,’ she sighed dreamily. He tightened his arms encircling her, ‘you are beautiful,’ he breathed into her, ‘you are my magic.’ She placed her palm against his lean cheek, stroking back the dark hair falling into his eyes and traced his lips with her fingertips._

_‘It seems we are the only two people in the world,’ she whispered._

_‘We are….’ he murmured. He pulled her closer to him, leaned over her and she closed her eyes._

>>>

She knew she was waking but did not open her eyes. It was a remembrance wrapped in a dream, and it would fade and she wanted to hold it a moment longer…..but it was already dimming - the images dissolving into wispy waning figures.

She opened her eyes to a gray tinged tent, and the distant sounds of men moaning in pain or their nightmares. The light that filtered inside was as gray as the tent, the soft sound of light rain hitting the tent roof and walls. It was a pretty and gentle sound – but it would mire the camp in mud and add damp and cold into the mix of assaults to the healthy and the sick. They would need more dry wood for the braziers to ward off the chill and set up more drying lines for damp clothing and blankets. They should not make cold gruel but hot soup – with meat. She would have to find time to check her snares in the forest. She did not dare hunt with a musket - it made too much noise and might attract enemy soldiers. She had a good dagger and if lucky, might find a wild turkey. These were the things the nuns did not know how to do. She sat up swinging her feet to the floor, feeling for her boots.

Sister Inez poked her head into the tent, ‘sorry – I’m afraid we need you.’ She smiled at the nun and got to her feet, poking her hair back under a cap and smoothing the blood splattered apron. She looked at her hands, spreading the fingers wide. She could feel his fingers tangled with hers. Did he ever think of their time together? She sighed heavily, took a deep breath and shook out her hands. She covered her shoulders with a shawl and left the tent. She paused for a moment to look up at the gray cloudy sky darkening to evening and night. There would be no stars tonight. For a moment, she remembered again the bejeweled ceiling and the night spent there under the magic of twinkling tiny crystal lights. So long ago – she pushed the image away. It was not helpful.

She looked around the camp – the huddle of tents that surrounded a squat two story building, the boarded walks between tents and building set above the worst of the mud and dirt. The washing hut, kitchen and workrooms were set to one side of the sole wooden structure. There was a relentless stream of men, maimed, injured, sick, starving and crowding the tiny hospital and tents. They came on wagons or walked or were slung across saddles like sacks.

She roamed the woods searching for the right plants to dry, grind and make into teas to ease fever or pain. The surgeons cut off limbs with barely a glance at the injury – it was the only treatment offered. The stench of blood, offal, unwashed bodies and festering wounds permeated the air. She was tired, a numbness setting in that made it difficult to feel her limbs or know if she was hungry. She feared she would come to a stop in the middle of the sick room – unable to remember where she was or where she was going, how to walk forward or backward – stuck in place. Others would simply walk around her and make no comment.

No mail for months. Had everyone forgotten about them? On occasion an emissary from a general would ride into camp and warn them of an enemy incursion or barrage that could kill them all. There were no able-bodied soldiers to defend them or help with an evacuation nor was there anywhere to go with their injured soldiers. She, the nuns, a few wives, or mothers or sisters of the injured stood huddled and listened without comment to the dire warnings. The emissaries would leave– satisfied in the delivery of their message of impending death and destruction. Warnings had been given. The rest was up to God.

Silently, they would watch him ride away and then quietly, unable to summon panic or more layered fear, they returned to their work – waiting for the cannon balls to land at their feet or swarms of the enemy soldiers to rise and storm from the surrounding forest and cut them down. Or – they waited for everyone to die from their injuries, the cold, fever or too much pain or lack of food. There were many options for Death.

She looked up from the worktable as the army surgeon entered the tent. His apron was bloodied, his eyes equally bloodshot from lack of sleep, black silvered hair standing up from too many times where he had raked his fingers through it in frustration. He had sent many messages to Paris for supplies and help. Today, the emissary had been driving a wagon with a few crates. He was also holding an opened letter and with a start she recognized the broken seal.

‘You are to return to Paris,’ he said to her, holding the letter out for her to read. She frowned at him and the letter. ‘You are to travel back with his messenger.’

‘I cannot leave,’ she told him. ‘You need the help…’ He held up his hand to forestall her objections.

‘It is an order from the Minister,’ he said. He leaned against the desk, folding his arms over this bloody apron. He expected some resistance.

‘He can order generals and soldiers – not me,’ she retorted, anger already flaring at the presumption. The surgeon smiled at her patiently. 

‘Go,’ he said, ‘you can return easily enough when you are finished with whatever business draws you there. Besides,’ his tired eyes twinkled, ‘would not a hot bath be tempting?’

She was studying the letter and glanced up at him. She gave a short laugh, ‘yes,’ she said, ‘right now I would trade my family jewels for a tub of hot water and 20 minutes to soak in it.’   
The surgeon smiled, ‘someday I hope to see you at a ball wearing those jewels,’ he said looking out the door toward the sick rooms. ‘My wife loves to dance …..’ his voice trailed off in wistful memory.

She watched the thoughts of home and longing move over his face, gray and weary with fatigue. She wasn’t the only one dreaming of magical nights and love.  
‘I will save a dance for you. I will wear every jewel I can hang around my neck and wrist, set on my head and place on my fingers,’ she quipped. He laughed at the image of her thus attired. 

‘That is – if I have not given them away for one night of soap and water, ‘ she hedged. He laughed again. He shook his finger at her, ‘Obey the Minister - go to Paris,’ he said sternly and left the room. She read the letter again.

Treville wanted her to return and pick up the pieces of what had been her life – to reassemble what had been shattered into a new future. He believed she could be happy in the life she had been born to live - in meeting her obligations to her status, duty to her farmers, and honor to her family name. She should consider the suitable men interested in marrying her. No one need ever know of her liaison with Lucien. Treville did not mention the child – who, along with the father, would cease to have ever existed. But she wouldn’t go to Paris. She would ignore this letter. She picked up the dagger and hid it in her skirt pocket, lifted the strap of her bag over her head and settled it on her shoulder. She had work to do.

The low snort of a horse startled her. She looked up – an old man was walking toward her, with a decided limp and leading his horse. He was wearing boots, a long riding coat and an old battered Musketeer hat – of a vintage from years past. She frowned as he drew closer and then her eyes widened in shock and delight.

‘Serge!’ she cried. ‘What on earth are you doing here? She ran towards him and threw her arms around him. She tucked her shoulder under his, her arm around his waist to help support him. She grabbed the reins.

‘Well, well young lady,’ he said laughing. ‘Making rather free with my person.’ She laughed with him and helped him sit. He gave a big sigh and breathed out heavily. ‘It’s good to be sitting and not on a wagon seat or a horse,’ he declared. She poured a glass of water for him.

‘You are Treville’s messenger,’ she said. ‘I cannot believe he made you ride all this distance.’

‘I volunteered,’ the old man said between large sips of water. ‘I think the captain thought I might be persuasive. Or maybe just useful,’ he said looking around the camp. She smiled and studied her feet. ‘But I suspect your mind is already made up,’ he said watching her eyes slide away from his.

‘I’ll find you a dry tent and cot,’ she said evasively. ‘Stay here and I will bring you some food.’ The old man caught her hand.

‘There’s a rumor that he is in Paris Miss,’ he said, his watery blue eyes boring into hers. ‘Causing some mischief too.’ Sophia caught her breath, staring at the old man. She sat down heavily, frowning, trying to absorb this news. 

Lucien in Paris. Involved in some trouble in Paris. How long had he been back? He was not looking for her. A knot settled in her stomach and for a moment she couldn’t draw breath. He was not looking for her. Tears sprang to her eyes and Old Serge took her cold hand in his warm one. She glanced into his kind patient face, and tears, held back far too long, flowed silently down her cheeks. He put his arm around her and drew her head to his shoulder, patting her gently.


	19. Noble games

…bitterness is always a poison. It keeps pain alive… sentencing one to relive the hurt over and over… (Lee Strobel)

 

A soft knock at the door - Paul de Vry stood from his chair and crossed the room. Henri leaned back from the desk, raked a hand through his thick silvered hair and watched him.

‘I’m always hoping Lucien is going to walk through that door and tell me to get the hell out of his chair,’ Henri Levesque quipped. ‘Who knew there was so much paperwork in piracy?’

A woman walked into the room, pulling off her gloves and lowering the hood of her traveling cloak. Henri stood and smiled broadly at her. Paul stood back respectfully.

‘Well gentlemen – what’s all the drama?’ asked Milady de Winter. She looked around the office curiously. ‘Where is Lucien?’

‘That is why I have sent for you,’ Henri started to say. He took her cloak and hung in carefully.

‘Sent for me?’ she arched a perfect winged eyebrow. He lowered his gaze and smiled ruefully at her rebuke.

‘It was meant as a request, Milady,’ he said courteously, ‘we need your help. Sophia needs your help.’

He pulled a chair closer to the brazier and held it while she sat. She raised her hands to warm them. He stepped to a side table, poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. He waited patiently for her to settle herself. Green eyes glittered at him appraising. She sipped the wine and inclined her head in approval. She took a deep breath, glancing again around the room and back to him.

‘Start at the beginning,’ she said.

>>>>

Two men walked down the long stone walkway. The prisoner they were going to see was in a large cell, with a view of the river. The sounds of a violin drifted down the dark stone corridor.

The jailer pushed opened the cell door - it had not been locked. They entered the large airy cell, warmed by a brazier standing in a corner. Book shelves lined one wall and several thick carpets softened the hard stone floor. A dining table, covered with a white cloth, was set for dinner, candlelight from the table candelabras softening cold stone walls. A footman was placing covered dishes and wine on the table. A valet was polishing his master’s boots.

The guest in this cell was tall, dressed in colorful silk pantaloons and a white silk shirt tailored to his large muscular frame, full sleeves billowing with his movements, polished high boots gleaming in the low light. His long, styled black hair flowed past his shoulders, his cheeks and jaw clean shaven, a carefully groomed moustache extending beyond the corners of his mouth. He was playing the violin.

At the sound of the cell door opening, the man turned, striking a pose with one hand on his hip as the two men entered the cell. He raised his brow in surprise, bowing low and sweeping his bow arm wide in greeting to his guests.

‘Chevalier,’ said Treville. ‘It is good of you to see us.’

The Chevalier Michel de Grammont beamed at the Minister. A nobleman who earned his King’s disfavor when he killed his sister’s suitor in a duel, Grammont had been exiled with a license to work as a privateer. He commanded the flagship in Grimaud’s fleet and was one of the most feared raiders of Spanish settlements in the West Indies. He had also stolen the largest ruby ever mined off a Dutch trading ship – intended for the King of Portugal – and wore it around his neck. The King of France was more than annoyed that the ruby had not been given to him.

‘Jean-Armand – what a rare pleasure, how is your family?’ inquired Grammont. ‘I saw your brother recently – at the opera if I remember.’ Treville nodded with a tight smile.

‘Come in, come in - I am, as you see, quite at my leisure.’ He waved them to chairs and glanced at his footman – who sprang forward to pour wine.

Suddenly, he frowned at the Minister, pursing his lips in a pout. ‘I see you are here empty handed Jean-Armand,’ he reproved peevishly. ‘You know how much I love the little pastries the palace chefs prepare! I am sad at your thoughtlessness of me in my circumstances.’

‘Indeed Grammont,’ chuckled Treville looking around the comfortable room complete with servants, ‘your circumstances are remarkable,’ he said drily.

The Chevalier turned to the second man. ‘Monsieur Comte d’la Fere– it has been some time since we have met,’ said Grammont politely, ‘although I believe you go by another name these days.’ He didn’t wait for Athos to reply, setting his violin on a low shelf and accepting a glass of wine from his servant. He settled into his chair, raising his glass in salute.

‘I am surprised to see you here,’ said Treville. ‘I thought you had the King’s favor.’

‘A little tiff,’ replied Grammont, waving his hand dismissively. ‘The King and I have them often over my presence in Paris. I shall be released soon. The King needs me back at work, not lounging in the Bastille.’

‘But what brings you to my chambers on such a fine afternoon?’ he inquired politely, smiling with his lips, but dark eyes narrowed and appraising them as he drank from his glass. Athos drew a quick breath. For all the man’s obsequious pleasantries and flamboyance – this was one of the most brilliant and notorious pirates working for the French Crown. It would be a mistake to underestimate the dog of war that prowled beneath colorful fine silk and flattery.

‘We need to speak with you about Grimaud,’ Treville got to the point.

‘Lucien? The dear lad,’ chuckled Grammont, ‘what is the naughty boy up to now?’ smiling at the mischievousness of privateers and pirates.

‘He is a favorite you know at Mme de Villiers salon – so handsome and witty – the ladies adore him – men too I think’ he winked impishly, ‘always carrying little gifts.’ The Chevalier crossed his legs elegantly and raised a hand to examine his manicured fingers. He smiled at them. He might have been entertaining them in the drawing room of his ancestral manor.

‘I believe you understand what we want to know,’ Treville said acidly, leveling his gaze at the pirate.

‘What do you think I can tell you that you do not already know?’ asked Grammont curiously.

‘Where he would hide in Paris, who would he turn to for help…,’ said Treville, providing examples of how he might help them.

‘Hide? Help?’ Grammont was confused and incredulous, looking from one man to the other.

‘Lucien doesn’t hide, and he certainly doesn’t need help to kill you,’ he looked pointedly at Athos who blinked in surprise at the task being considered so unremarkable.

‘You are the one he believes shot her,’ the Chevalier reminded the scowling Musketeer, ‘what did you expect to happen? A long talk over tea? Acceptance of abject apologies? A kiss on the cheek and all is forgiven?’

The pirate shook his head in disbelief while looking at Treville, ‘really Jean-Armand – what do you teach your men these days?’

‘Innocent people are dying…’ Athos’ voice was tight with anger. 

‘Innocent?’ Grammont’s laughed in amusement, ‘As a member of the King’s war party, I can attest that many innocent lives are taken at the King’s orders and to appease his Majesty’s appetites,’ declared the Chevalier. Athos started to reply angrily – but the Chevalier held up his hand to stop Athos’ predictable protest.

‘He knows about Savoy,’ he said abruptly and Treville visibly stiffened. ‘Feron is being a nuisance – always sowing little seeds of trouble, isn’t he?’ Grammont leaned back in his chair, studying his wine, ‘my father always said Henry should have paid more attention to his by-blows. Perhaps drown some.’

‘This information is something you seem not to know, ‘observed the Chevalier quietly, watching Treville’s reaction. Athos frowned, confused as to why the massacre at Savoy years ago would be of interest to Grimaud.

‘I was at the Abbey,’ answered the Minister, tracing a pattern on the table. ‘The good Sister reminded me of Gatien’s charity to a poor boy. I had not put it together until I visited there.’

Both he and the Chevalier fell silent – remembering their family ties and shared youth. As young men with ambitions, they were eager to prove their loyalty and dedication to their duty and honor. They learned hard lessons and the consequences of poor leadership. Treville’s beloved cousin, Gatien d’Auerville, had suffered such consequences. The past is never dead thought Treville, his heart heavy with remembered sadness.

Grammont turned to Treville, ‘so – you are experiencing the wrath of one of your own making –one who is used in service of the crown. You have angered a man who knows how to make war at sea, lay siege to settlements and you are surprised that he can cause chaos and destruction.’ He laughed derisively.  
‘What is it exactly that you want from me?’

‘He must be stopped,’ said Treville firmly.

‘Then give him what he wants,’ replied Grammont smoothly. ‘Or is your pride in the way Jean-Armand? Have you courted the counsel of another, perhaps not of this world, in making your decisions?’ He looked steadily at Treville – not smiling. ‘Are you sure her counsel is wise?’

‘He is dangerous…’ Treville ignored the man’s provocative questions.

‘And he grows more dangerous the longer this goes on,’ countered the Chevalier.

‘Consider his view - you did not protect her, one of your men may’ - he turned to Athos, bowing slightly to acknowledge some benefit of doubt in the matter - ‘be responsible for shooting her. And now he knows that by the grace of God and Henry Levesque, she lives, although her child does not – and you hide her from him!’

‘He is involved in plots against the King,’ accused Treville stubbornly, masking his surprise that Grammont knew of the child. He didn’t look at Athos – who was looking at him in shock. He had not known she was carrying a child.

‘Pfft,’ Grammont hissed dismissively, ‘his madness is convenient for others who plot against the King. I will tell you this,’ he pointed his finger at them for emphasis, ‘he is not interested in money or governments. But he would know how to use the chaos of a government ignoring the needs of its people and under siege.’

‘And,’ he acknowledged, ‘he hates you. And you as well,’ he reminded Athos. ‘So there is that I suppose,’ he shrugged.

‘You are actually surprised he reacts badly to all that has been done,’ the Chevalier shook his head. ‘I do not know what to say to you Jean-Armand. I thought you were now a politician – a man who seeks understanding, to negotiate and compromise to bring about resolution. You seem more the soldier - a blunt instrument – wanting his destruction as much as he wants yours.’

‘There is no negotiation with a man on a rampage,’ snapped Treville. 

‘If Lucien is at war – it is for that which is most important to him – what he loves most in this world,’ Grammont studied Treville steadily and said softly, ‘do you not wish you had done the same?’

Treville’s glance flickered to him, his mouth tightened and eyes narrowed in warning. Silence filled the room. Athos looked at both men. The undercurrents between them stretched back in time – a shared history of which he was not a part.

‘I hardly know how to help you,’ Grammont sighed and sat back in his chair, drinking deeply from his glass.

He looked at the two men and pursed his mouth in resignation, setting his glass on the table. ‘My dinner grows cold gentlemen. I will tell you what you need to understand about Lucien Grimaud.’

‘There are very few who actually know him. But on the oceans and in seaports of the world, in Paris and cities throughout the continent and beyond, there are few who do not know his name. Many fear him and many would step forward to help him – in service of their own grievances.’

He pointed at the two men, eyes narrowed and accusing, ’you know who they are - soldiers denied pensions, men who cannot feed their starving children, brothers of those killed by Musketeers and let us not forget the King’s political enemies. It’s quite a merry group,’ he declared waving his arm theatrically. ‘They would gladly join the crowd surging around Grimaud toward you, the King and the men who defend him.’

He looked at Athos, ‘Monsieur - I have seen you fight and your skill is admirable, among the best I have seen – without a doubt.’ The Chevalier pointed a finger at the Musketeer, speaking slowly for emphasis, ‘but - you - cannot – beat - him. He is better than you - faster, stronger, a brilliant mind handling a sword and right now, very motivated.’

He sat back regarding both men gravely, ‘consider this a warning – you may choose to ignore it and if so – the consequences are yours and yours Armand,’ Grammont’s dark eyes bored into Treville’s stony face.

‘I tell you plainly,’ declared the pirate, ‘Lucien is riding a wave. He is not in charge of these events – nor is he seeking to take charge. Pray that he does not.’  
‘Let him have what he wants, or he will destroy everything and everyone you hold dear – and then - he will burn the rest.’

>>>

Aramis sat and motioned to the tavern girl to bring wine. He removed his hat and slapped his gloves onto the table. He leaned back and eyed Athos – who was staring at him intently.

‘What?’ Aramis frowned under Athos’ inspection.

‘Did you know?’ Athos asked eyes narrowing and suspicious. Aramis opened his mouth to reply but Athos cut him off, ‘did you know – before you left Paris, that Sophia was carrying a child?’ Aramis’ eyes widened in surprise and for a moment Athos felt relief – he hadn’t been so stupid and thick-headed after all. But he was wrong.

‘How did you find out?’ Aramis asked quietly. Athos stared at him, eyes widening in surprise.

‘She came to you?’ he shook his head in disbelief. Why would she not have told him? But - he knew why – he had been preoccupied with his wife.

‘She wasn’t sure, you forget how young she is, or was. And – she was happy. I don’t think she believed you or Treville would be pleased to learn that she was carrying Lucien’s child.’

Athos snorted, ‘Hardly.’ He looked sourly into his wine glass.

‘Exactly,’ replied Aramis looking sternly at Athos. ‘She could not trust either of you.’ Athos frowned at him. ‘Could? She ‘could’ not trust us? What did she think I would do? Lock her in the palace dungeon? Not the worst idea,’ he mumbled grouchily.

Aramis returned his angry gaze levelly, ‘it wasn’t about deceiving you – it was about holding on to her own happiness,’ he said curtly, ‘for as long as that was possible.’ He held his thoughts and commentary on whether Athos’ pride should have been her concern at all.

‘Did you know she lost the child?’

‘No – but it would have been a miracle for a baby to survive the shock of the injury and the fever. To go through it surrounded by those who would judge her must have been very difficult,’ Aramis said pointedly.

Athos sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He was angry but not so full of conceit that he did not recognize what Aramis was saying to him – it was his own fault she had not told him. He made it difficult for her to confide in him anything related to Grimaud. For a moment he wondered if Anne had known.

‘Do you know where she is?’ Aramis asked.

‘Regrettably, in a medical tent at the front,’ said Athos, naming the village where the unit was located. It would be difficult for others to find her among the units stretched out along the battle lines with Spain. Conditions were difficult, medicines and supplies lacking, communications unreliable and inconsistent. She wanted to be there – she thought she could be useful. She refused to return to Paris.

‘Does she know Lucien is in Paris? Does she know Treville won’t tell him where she is?’ Aramis asked. Athos did not answer.

Aramis snorted in disbelief, ‘well that makes things a little clearer.’ He stared off into a middle distance, shaking his head, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. He glanced at Athos and stood up and hesitated and said grimly – ‘he would never hurt her,’ slammed his hat on his head and stalked away.

Athos watched him go and lifted his glass wearily. He felt tired, distracted, fractious. Too many intersecting parts – disgruntled soldiers, starving refugees, ambitious men – a weak King, the government’s military efforts mired in political squabbling – and a man conducting a private war. He couldn’t seem to see these problems clearly – to sort them into priorities, devise stratagems, develop plans of action - always a step behind, fighting their own, no resolution. He knew his recent behavior had displeased Treville – who remained silent with his disappointment.

If Sophia were here she would not be silent. Her chastisements would rain down upon him like tiny fists beating against his chest and brow – her disapproval would wash over him as would her stubborn tangle of loyalty and love. She would refuse to back down in the face of his barbed rebuttals of her intrusions into his life. It wouldn’t matter where he went or who he was with, she would hunt him down and demand to know why he was disquieted, why he was neglectful to his duty. She could be aggravating and infuriating beyond measure. He missed her.

D’Artagnan was coming towards him, an anxious expression in his eyes. Athos stood up, knowing there was trouble somewhere – another drama unfolding requiring his sword, commands to his men, and no doubt a fight.

‘Something is wrong at the prison,’ said D’Artagnan, a little breathless from running. ‘Marcheaux is demanding to see us.’ 

Athos didn’t ask any questions. There was no point – what he needed to know would be learned soon enough. He tossed back the rest of his wine and led the way out the door.

A caped figure, sitting at an adjacent table, their back to the Musketeers, watched the two men exit the tavern. The figure stood and dropped a few coins on the table. Well, thought Milady de Winter – that was easy. She knew where to find Sophia.


	20. Death stalks a hero

‘Don’t get too close. It’s dark inside. It’s where my demons hide…..  
Go ahead come close, there is hell inside of me, it's where your demons can live" (Imagine Dragons)

A cool breeze ruffled his hair, the sounds of the tavern drifting up along its currents. A few lights marked the presence of a wharf and a river flowing silently beyond. The street below was dark, sudden bursts of light and sound streaming from the opening of tavern doors and vanishing as the door shut. He was sitting on the roof, listening to the sounds of the riverfront. It had been his home for many years although he had not been back in years - since the war began – and she was murdered. 

_They used to come up here – on hot summer evenings. He would step from the landing to the railing and to the roof, pulling her up after him. The darkness afforded privacy and she wore her shift as it was cooler. They would listen to the occasional sound of a boat bumping against the wharf, small waves slapping at the piers and the muffled sounds of oars on the water, men’s voices. Small lights from lanterns winked in the darkness._

_‘Are boats arriving at this time of night?’ she asked him. ‘It is risky to travel,’ he answered ‘but the captains are experienced, and they find it less troublesome to arrive at night. ‘They will unload quickly and take the goods to the warehouses.’ There were horse teams standing ready._

_‘Have you traveled up the river?’ she asked. She was sitting in front of him holding her hair up from her neck to feel the cooling draft on her neck._

_‘Yes,’ he nodded, watching tendrils of her dark hair stir in the gentle breeze. Her neck was slender and long, her shoulders sloping gracefully. The muscles in her arms defined – she was strong for a woman._

_‘I would love to see it,’ she said wistfully, releasing her hair and it cascaded across her shoulders and down her back. She leaned against his chest and he felt it’s silkiness on his skin. He inhaled the scent of her and the soaps and creams she used._

_‘We can,’ he said circling his arms around her pulling her back against him. ‘du Sable will take us wherever we want to go.’_

_‘No mercenary river-men,’ she shook her head, ‘just us.’_

_He laughed, ‘we might need a few men to row. Or are you planning to do it?’ She tilted her head to look up at him. ‘Well someone has to be the captain,’ he explained with a serious look. She arched a perfect eyebrow and he laughed._

_‘Just us,’ she whispered._

_‘Alright,’ he agreed smiling as he nuzzled her neck, ‘just us.’_

>

He was transfixed – the memories of her – they were vivid. She came to him in dreams, folding herself into his arms, eyelashes tickling him, her skin cold. Her blue eyes were clouded, winking lights dimmed with sorrow – _why are you so sad?_ he asked her. She nestled closer but did not answer. He wanted to warm her with his heat, holding her to him and trying not to wake – to keep her with him. Slowly she would fade in his arms and vanish.

He sighed, spreading his fingers, letting the memories slip away. For a moment he considered running to the wharf and jumping onto the first boat, to Rouen and then to Le Havre and then to sea and away from all memories. But they traveled with him – stalking and lingering in his dreams. It had startled him – how fast the world had shifted under his feet. He had thought he understood its rhythms, anticipated changing tempos. He had been careless, forgetting in his unversed happiness, that the demon was silent but vigilant - it roared alive when the bullet struck, its flames licking at the back of his eyes and clenching his gut. It gripped him, knowing where shame and fear were hidden – to stoke his rage – filling his mind with hysterical shrieking laughter as he plunged into war – hunting and killing. He knew he was changed – there would be no going back.

Now, he stalked his enemies through the city streets. War could make a man vigilant over his life – or reckless with death. They were careless, paying little heed to the shadows in the street or those who sat at the next table in the tavern, or dealing the cards at a gaming table, or sitting behind a few rows in a church. It would be easy to slip a knife across a neck, a sword into a body or a bullet into a heart.

He roamed the palace, watching Treville from the balcony as he worked late into the night or from the garden as he wandered the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. He got drunk with cadets, joining their boisterous salutes of their prowess with sword and musket. They were young – these boys who yearned for glory and death in the service of their King. But he didn’t kill his enemies. He didn’t ask himself why - he waited.

He sat in the back of rooms listening to others plan attacks for murder, vengeance and subversion. It was laughable – emptying a prison to steal gold, blowing up entire buildings, the schemes were ridiculous and would fail. These men were cretins and without discipline. Feron and Lorraine thought he didn’t see their manipulations of him, believing their wild promises of riches and power glittering enough to fool him. They would learn otherwise he thought grimly. They would try to throw him aside eventually. He saw it all.

It didn’t matter – chaos could be its own reward. Sooner or later he would face his enemy and kill him. Then he would be done, and he would leave. Or maybe he would be killed. He knew it just as likely he would leave in a box or more likely his body tossed into a pit with other forgotten men. No one to mourn him. No one to remember him. No one to forgive him


	21. The ravages of evil...

What ravages of spirit  
Conjured this tempestuous rage

Every moment marked  
With apparitions of your soul  
I'm ever swiftly moving  
Trying to escape this desire  
The yearning to be near you…

And I have the sense to recognize that  
I don't know how to let you go… (SMcLachlan)

The young woman had her back to him, wandering through the market, idly looking in the stalls along the pathway. She wore an unremarkable skirt and blouse, her boots scuffed and worn, hair loosening from its pins and ribbons and swinging her plain straw hat.

There was something in the sway of her hips, the set of her shoulders, the golden threads through her chestnut hair – so he followed her, his broad brimmed hat shading his dark eyes and severe face. Other women had a graceful walk, aristocratic bearing and beautiful hair. This woman had those and perhaps something more. It was that something more in which he was interested. 

He was riding his horse on a path bordering the market. She was on the next walkway that ran between two rows of market stalls. He slowed his horse to keep pace with her and then stopped and dismounted. He waited patiently for her to turn towards him.

The day had started with a clear sky and warm sunshine, but now, late in the day, the sun’s warmth was blunted by obscuring clouds and a cool wind rising. She glanced up to the sky, considering the potential for rain and if she should make haste for her home, took a step and stopped abruptly. She canted her head as though listening to or considering – something. She turned slowly to look behind her.

He watched her turn and didn’t know he was holding his breath.

The world fell away. Around him sounds muted, figures slowed in their actions and dimmed in color and light. He saw only her, frowning and searching, her slender hand raised to shade her blue winking iridescent eyes, long fingers stroking her hair back. Blue eyes framed by straight brows and high cheekbones, cheeks planed to a strong jawline and stubborn chin. Her mouth slightly overgenerous, full lips and a straight nose. He knew every look in those blue eyes – how they flashed with anger, sparkled with laughter and darkened with desire, felt the tiny fires that ignited as those lips traced a line over his cheek, neck and chest. He could feel her glossy hair flowing through his fingers and his muscles flexing and arching to her touch.

Her eyes moved over the crowd, settled on him – and widened slightly. He walked towards her and stopped a few feet away, breathing hard. Her eyes never left his, her lips formed his name soundlessly. He closed the distance between them and lifted her to sit sideways on his saddle. He swung up behind her and turned the horse toward the street, quickly threading their way through carriages, pedestrians and other riders. He could feel the curve of her hip against his thigh, the softness of her pressing against his chest, her hair tickling his neck. He looked at his hand holding the reins – it was shaking slightly, the horse moving restlessly under them sensing his agitation. She raised her hand to cover his and it was familiar and gentle. His mind was racing – but she touched him, and his body remembered her – his hand steadied.

They turned into the drive leading to the rear of the house. He dismounted and tossed the reins to the stable boy lifted her down and led her into the house. He knelt to build a fire in the coolness of the drawing room although he was burning with the need to touch her. The wood caught quickly, and he looked down into the flames.

‘Lucien.’

He closed his eyes at the sound of her voice – letting it drift in the air between them and repeat inside his mind.

‘Lucien,’ she whispered again. He stood and turned to her. The anguish in his face and dark eyes took her breath away. She threw her arms around his neck showering his face with kisses, whispering his name, pressing herself against him. He held her arms gently - afraid to move. He pulled her back to frame her face with his warm strong hands, to look into her blue eyes – twin pools the color of the bluest ocean, tears falling - her touch, her voice, her scent – his body remembered and longing, buried deep inside him, burst wildly to life. He crushed her to him.

He needed to touch her - to feel her skin under his hands and he pulled at the lacings and tapes of her clothing, his hands running over her face, neck, back, the curves of her hip and waist and drank in her scents. He took the pins from her hair letting it cascade down her back, tangling his fingers in its silkiness. He kissed her cheeks, wet with tears and her smiling laughing mouth, she reached up to touch his cheek and he lifted her into his arms, strode up the stairs to the bedchamber and kicked open the door, and heard her laughter drifting down the long staircase as the most beautiful music.

>

She woke with a start – immediately aware she was alone in the bed and in the room. Dim light was filtering through the window in the early dawn. She sat up slowly pushing her hands through her tangled hair and stretching her shoulders. Her body ached deliciously with the hours of their lovemaking. He had awakened her twice in the night, unable and unwilling to control his desire. She had abandoned her own mind – surrendering to his will and hunger – or maybe it was her will and hunger too.

She had forgotten how intoxicating he was - the sensation of barely contained power, his muscles reactive and flexing as her fingers trailed over his chest and dug into his shoulders, his strength infusing his passion, strong, gentle hands holding her face, roaming her body, turning her to his desire, his arms iron bands supporting and positioning her. He claimed her, asserting and deepening his possession - his dark beauty enticing and mysterious, his scent mixed with his soap and tobacco, the smell of the sea burned deep into his skin and leathers. His breath was warm on her neck, mouth insistent and drifting over her skin, the deep rumble of his voice. Any apprehensions were thrown to the floor along with their clothing. 

She listened intently but the house was silent. She swung her feet to the floor, pulling the sheet with her and wrapping it around her. She hurried from the room and rushed down the stairs, into the empty dining room, gallery and through the entryway. She ran into the salon and stood in the center looking around the empty room, holding the sheet with one hand and raking back her hair with the other. He had left her. She sucked in her breath and squeezed her eyes shut to stop the immediate tears that threatened to spill. For a moment she was paralyzed by confusion and disbelief. Why had he left? How would she find him again? What did it mean?

‘Sophie?’ A deep male voice behind her. She whirled around. Lucien was standing in the doorway, carrying a tray with covered plates and tea dishes. He looked puzzled, his gaze taking in the bedsheet she clutched to cover her naked body and on down to her bare feet. He looked back at her face.

‘Did I destroy your clothes?’ he quipped, slightly abashed at his frenzy to remove them. ‘Is there is something I should get….?’ he asked but her frown deepened.  


He walked into the room and set the tray on a table. ‘I thought you might like tea upstairs – but if you prefer it here….’ He had done something wrong but didn’t know what it was. She was angry.

‘I thought you had left,’ she exclaimed abruptly trying not to sound accusing, sensing that would be wrong. She straightened her shoulders, hitched the bedsheet a little higher, and smoothed her hair. He wanted to laugh, inexplicably charmed at her attempts to make herself more appropriate – while draped in a bedsheet.

‘You weren’t thinking of chasing after me in that…?’ he teased, wondering if he could fix it with humor. But she was not smiling. He frowned and rubbed his forehead. 

‘Why would you think I had left you?’ he addressed her question, frowning. She was angry at him – accusing – what had he done?

 _Because you did leave me!_ were her unspoken angry words – hurled at him from the core of her memory – awakening in the abbey – alone, injured, sick and a child - dead. In the difficult years that followed, he had not come for her, nor had he looked for her.

‘I woke, and you were gone,’ she was afraid she sounded as querulous as she felt and looked away. They stood a few feet apart, but it might have been leagues of distance. She watched him walk away from her toward the fireplace to light a fire. It gave him something to do while he tried to understand what was occurring between them.

He had felt it immediately when he woke that morning. Her breath tickled his skin, the weight of her head against his shoulder, his arm curved around her. Her leg was flung over his, her arm across his chest. He shifted his head to look down into her face, the dark lashes lowered over her flushed cheeks, her lips bruised and rosy, slightly parted. She was the same to him – he knew every curve, shape, feel, taste and scent. It was achingly familiar – and yet not.

There was newness to them – an alteration acquired from their last memory of the other, further altered and shaped during the years of absence. There had been plenty of time to examine the facts – to endow them with meaning, revise that meaning, attach another or go back to the first one. There was no version that alleviated the demand for justice and punishment or the empty years of loneliness. Small seeds of doubt had been sown and a hard shell of mistrust formed.

In that instant, the unspoken but hoped for promises from intimacies of the night before - vanished. They had much to overcome.

He felt the familiar shoots of anger vibrate at the edges of his mind – this was a new insult. It was not enough to hurt her, to kill his child, to hide her from him – now they had taken away her faith in him and his love. He churned with fury - Treville had always wanted this – for her not to trust him. Had he encouraged it? Did Treville brought her back to Paris to parade his triumph to him? To humiliate him with the hopelessness of his love for her? She would never be his.

Rage rumbled within him – as it had for a long time. He could no longer remember when he had not felt its flames licking at him – the burning need to destroy. It roared to life with the slightest provocation taking over his mind completely. He felt it now – simmering and waiting.

He turned his gaze to her and she dug her nails into her arm to stop her gasp of shock. His face was stone, his dark eyes sunk deep where the demon stoked his fires. Through the eyes of her lover the devil inside laughed and jeered at her naïve thoughts of love and redemption.

The wall trembled from the impact of the door as he threw it open and then again as it slammed shut the cold tea quivering in the cups on the tray.  
She stood motionless in the empty room listening to the echo of the crashing door. She sank to the floor and lay down. She was still there, hours later – when Milady de Winter found her.


	22. Death comes for a hero

‘Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head’ (Shakespeare Titus Andronicus)

 

He leaned against the door frame and fished a key from his pocket, unlocking the door. The office was dark and empty. He closed the door quietly and stood for a moment letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It had been a long time since he had worked in this office – a longer time since they had been here together. Papers on the desk were neatly organized, chairs lined along the length of the large rectangular table in the center of the room. The sofa had a blanket folded at one end – no doubt Henri slept here at times. The work of commanding the King’s naval mercenaries demanded long hours. He walked the length of the room to the bedchamber and sat on the edge of the bed. They had rarely stayed here – but sometimes, as he worked late into the night, she would read or work on her correspondence. She would never come here again.

He heard voices on the landing and the door opened. A large man entered the room, carrying a lantern. He stopped suddenly – aware that someone was there. Lucien rose and left the bedchamber.

‘Henri,’ said Lucien. The big man sucked in his breath and walked forward quickly, setting the lantern on the desk and lighting more candles. Two more people followed him into the room.

Henri Lavesque stared in shock at his captain. Sudden anger flashed in his deep brown eyes and he set his mouth in a grim line. With long determined strides he walked towards Lucien pulled back his big arm and smashed his fist into Lucien’s jaw. He flew over the long rectangular table landing heavily on the floor on the opposite side. Henri stepped around the table, leaning down to grab Lucien by his tunic and hauled him to his feet and shook him like a very large doll. He leaned into Lucien’s dazed and bloody face.

‘What is wrong with you?’ he roared.  
>  


Henri dumped him unceremoniously on the sofa and stepped back, folding his arms across his big chest.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ admonished Milady de Winter. ‘Light the fire.’ She glanced at Lucien who was touching his jaw gingerly and looking dazed. ‘He needs a brandy.’ 

She peered more closely at his face. Aside from his throbbing jaw and swelling eye, blood was crusting on the side of his face. Alarmed, she looked down - he was holding his hand gingerly over his stomach. Blood was oozing from a wound. He had been shot – twice.

‘What happened?’ she exclaimed, eyes wide with concern. He shook his head wearily. There was no part of his body that did not hurt.

‘Labarge brothers had a plan to kill Musketeers – it was stupid and ill conceived - like them,’ he quipped, smiling grimly. She sucked in her breath – had he killed Athos? 

Lucien opened his eyes – he had heard her silent question. ‘He lives,’ he murmured and smiled. ‘He has a body guard. A woman – I think she is taller than either of us – it’s terrifying,’ he joked. She breathed out – not realizing she had been holding her breath.

‘A whore?’ she asked sharply. He shook his head carefully, ‘I think not,’ and squeezed her hand gently. She looked away. What had she expected? He had not come to the crossing. He had not asked her to stay. He had not followed her. She had been hopeful – there had seemed reason to be hopeful. Perhaps, after all - he had abandoned her. A deep pain burst in her chest and her stomach churned.

She managed a nonchalant smiled and shrugged. ‘If you and Athos manage to kill each other Sophia and I will run away to Italy together,’ she told him. He chuckled, ‘perfect,’ but he wasn’t fooled.

‘If Sophia were here the woman would be dead by the end of the day,’ remarked the third person who had entered the room. The Chevalier d’ Grammont leaned over her shoulder to inspect the wound, ‘then she might shoot you - again - she has a temper,’ he reminded Lucien who was too occupied enduring their probing of his stomach to respond. 

‘You operated on yourself?’ asked the pirate frowning at the condition of the wound.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Lucien reminded him sourly. Grammont chuckled, ‘No – I remember. Your skills have not improved.’

She looked up at Grammont, ‘send someone for Prujean. He needs a doctor.’

‘I think I can handle this,’ said the pirate captain, removing his silk tunic, folding it carefully and rolling up his sleeves. ‘It won’t be the first time I have patched you up,’ he said to Lucien, ‘you will recall my gentle touch and skills as a seamstress,’ he laughed. Lucien grunted.

‘Boiling water,’ he said to Henri. ‘I shall get my instruments.’ He ran down the stairs, returning a few minutes later with a small case. From the tavern kitchen Henri brought a large basin and a steaming kettle.

‘A small amount of laudanum will ease the pain,’ the pirate said to Lucien, pulling out a small vial.

‘No,’ said Lucien, in a voice that required no further discussion on the matter. She took his hand, ‘this will hurt.’

He smiled at her, ‘I’m tougher than I look,’ he kidded and then gasped as his pirate physician poured distilled alcohol over the open wound. An hour later the Chevalier was washing and wiping his hands dry, ‘you have a remarkable tolerance for pain my friend,’ the pirate observed. The wound was cleaned, stitched and wrapped. Lucien murmured and kept his eyes closed. He was exhausted.

Grammont turned to Anne handing her a paper twist of powder. ‘Mix this with a little water and change the poultices and bandages every hour.’ He looked at Henri who had been standing at the window, arms crossed over his massive chest and watching silently.

‘Don’t stand there glowering all night Henri - I must go meet the boats and will expect you later. You know where to find me,’ the Chevalier kissed Milady on the cheek, shrugged into his tunic, slung his two muskets over his shoulder, carefully placed his hat with waving feather on his head and strode from the room.

‘Pour a brandy for him and see if there is any ice downstairs.’ She twisted a wet cloth and applied it to his swollen jaw and battered eye. He flinched and looked daggers at Henri.

‘None of that,’ she said severely. She frowned at Henri who stubbornly had not moved. ‘Ice and brandy,’ she reminded him tartly. He slid his eyes away from her but went to the sideboard and poured one with wine and one with brandy and mulishly left the glasses on the table. He walked out.

‘Men,’ she muttered, retrieving the glasses and handing one to Lucien. He sipped at the dark liquid and coughed. It felt harsh on his throat but spread a warm glow through his aching body.

‘You saw her?’ he knew Anne had gone to the house. ‘Yes,’ she signed in exasperation, ‘she was upset Lucien. What were you thinking - just walking out?’ He didn’t answer. It was an argument – he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened - it was a foggy and vague memory. But he knew he had been consumed with fury and felt demeaned - it was better that he left.

 _Four years in hell! he wanted to shout. I’m not the same man - the things I have done - she does not know me and should not trust me._

Henri came back into the room carrying a bowl with ice. She wrapped the ice in a towel and held it to his swelling jaw. She sat back and appraised the damage. 

‘There may be a scar from the gunshot, but it will make you look even more unbearably handsome,’ she pronounced. ‘The nose is not broken.’

‘I can try again,’ grumbled Henri. Lucien narrowed his eyes at him but did not speak. His entire face was throbbing and the flying trip across the table to the floor had jarred him. The bullet wound in his stomach was not helping matters any either.

‘Lucien, she left Paris….’ His eyes flickered to hers. He was desperate to ask questions – but stopped himself. He only nodded.

‘She’s gone to the estate,’ Henri told him. ‘I will ride with you. We can leave as soon as you stop moaning about a punch and an insignificant bullet wound.’

He held the ice filled towel to his face and looked up at Henri from under it, ‘you threw me across the room,’ he added. Henri shrugged, ‘you’ll live.’

‘I cannot ride to her now.’ He sat up carefully, balancing his elbows on his knees, head resting in his hands. ‘I have to go.’

_They have taken everything! They must be punished! I will kill them all! he raged silently._

Anne and Henri exchanged glances, ‘go where?’ Henri asked him angrily. For the first time Henri felt fear pricking him – what was wrong with the man?

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t think about her or the child or their argument. It weakened him. He wouldn’t be able to finish what he had started. He was furious with himself – he had acted hastily and been careless in the attack on Athos. Feron had been a useless weak cipher and he hated his whining brother and the arrogant Lorraine. He wanted it to be over, to be done with these men. He wanted desperately to leave. He bared his teeth, eyes flaring in anger.

Anne watched his roiling emotions rage across Lucien’s stony face – she had seen men like this before – consumed with their own hate or lust or both - blind to the world around them. She wanted to shout at him – _what happens to Sophia if you kill Treville or Athos?_ What happens to me she wondered?

‘Stay here tonight,’ she urged, ‘get some rest. She doesn’t want this chaos.’

_She doesn’t want me either he thought. Look at me he said silently - It’s too dark in here with me – look at me.…the demon grinned and snickered…_

Henri waved his hand angrily, indicating the room. ‘What about here?’ he demanded. ‘The captains want to know what you are doing, when you will return. This has to stop Lucien – or you will be hunted by more than Musketeers!’

‘It will be over soon,’ he said wearily. He had no thought of what came next. Most likely – his own death.

_I am not coming back here he thought. This life is over._

He stood up swaying. He tossed the towel and ice away and straightened his shoulders and placed a hand on Henri’s shoulder, ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. 

He walked carefully to the door, pulled it open and hesitated. He turned back as though to say something and then he stepped through the doorway into the dark night.


	23. There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.” (Shakespeare Hamlet)

The Musketeer was watching him whittle a piece of wood. It seemed odd – a man suspended by his arms – curious but not complaining or arguing and generally behaving like an invited guest rather than a prisoner. Lucien looked up from his seat by the fire at his captive.

'Comfortable?’ he jibed at the man, hoping for an appropriate response rather than his studied observation. The Musketeer grinned and might have given a graceful shrug of his shoulders if his current situation permitted it. As it was, a grin was all he could manage.

‘I met your mother,’ Aramis said, wishing he could scratch the itch on his nose. Lucien looked up with a frown and stared at the bound man. 

‘You must have been to Eparcy,’ he said, returning to his carving. ‘Just out for a ride in the country or looking for someone?’ He glanced up at his prisoner – a smile curving his lips.

‘We talked about you,’ said Aramis. Lucien stilled his hands. The air around them quieted – even the night insects lowered their evening chittering. ‘She told me she hasn’t seen you in a long time.’

Lucien snorted, ‘since the day I was born?’ He impaled the knife into the ground at his feet. ‘I don’t suppose she mentioned which Musketeer might be my father?

Aramis pursed his lips. He had been unhappily surprised when the woman told him of Musketeers using the whores in the village – but Treville had said in the early days of the regiment things had not always gone so well. Too many exasperated aristocratic fathers purchasing places for their dissolute sons or their unconscious inebriated noble bodies dropped off in the garrison yard. It had taken time for the recruitment of men to reflect merit and mirror the objectives of the King and his commanders in forming the elite King’s guard. The irony was that Lucien was very likely to be the by-blow of an aristocrat.

‘My mother was also a whore,’ Aramis told him. Lucien paused his whittling and glanced at the Musketeer. ‘There are many whose mothers have little choice,’ said the prisoner, ‘you know that as well as I do.’

Lucien dropped his hands between his knees and gave a short mirthless laugh, ‘so what? Are we now brothers?’ He stood and strode restively around the ruin of the building in which they were waiting.

Aramis watched Grimaud. Despite his aching arms and uncertain near future, he bizarrely felt a stab of sympathy and understanding. ‘I know the life,’ said Aramis softly. ‘I have not talked of it with anyone,’ the Musketeer confessed. ‘It marks a child – the shame.’

The life - fear and humiliation, a child hiding under a bed or in a closet as sounds become familiar but outside a child’s understanding, then a fist or a strap hitting soft flesh, cries and groans echoing in a room or in his head. He had heard enough from Lucien’s mother – an all too familiar and sad story - a girl raped, abused and forced into prostitution. A child herself, she was unable to care for the child she bore. Her son had faced a perilous and uncertain existence. That he had survived - alone – was luck, determination and a miracle. The abasement of humiliation instills the meanest fears of worthlessness. It resonates deep within and is never forgotten.

‘You took care of her,’ the Musketeer persevered – perhaps recklessly, considering his precarious circumstances. ‘She remembered – she knows she did not take care of you.’

Lucien’s stomach twisted and his gaze flickered to the bound man. His stern face settled into stony planes as he worked to gain control and resist the growing sense of familiarity with his prisoner. His early life had been solitary, his memories a series of images of his mother, bringing her clean water, sweeping the floor and collecting her few items of clothing for washing. He saw her, thin and hunched, sitting at a small table, slowly spooning food he had stolen or hunted into her mouth. She did not ask where the food came from or where he slept most nights. She rarely talked and spent most of the day sleeping. She often had bruises after the blue-cloaked soldiers came, and money they threw on the floor as they left never lasted long.

He had never asked himself if she loved him.

Lucien was staring at Aramis, ‘what is your purpose here?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I believe she has many regrets,’ continued Aramis, careful that neither his voice or look held pity for the man.

‘Did you lure her to your confessional priest?’ Grimaud sneered, ‘a little late don’t you think? Both she and I are damaged beyond repair.’

He spread his arms wide, feigning an exaggerated bow, ‘here I am – the sad result of all my low and debased origins - do you think I might be the son my father hoped for?’

‘You have done well by yourself Lucien. There is nothing for which you need to apologize.’

Grimaud curled his lip in fury and stalked away – his back to Aramis. ‘You know Treville and Athos do not share your enlightened view of bastards – particularly bastard sons of prostitutes. I have no merit –they wish me dead.’ 

‘That is not how Sophia sees you,’ Aramis replied. ‘She would never give her love to a man she thought worthless.’

‘Do not speak of her!’ Grimaud roared at him whirling to stride angrily toward him. ‘You know nothing of her or us!’

‘I do,’ the Musketeer persisted, sensing something changing in the man stalking back and forth in front of him, ‘You know I was there when she returned to her home. I do know her. I know how she searched for you and I have seen her love for you in her eyes, heard it in her voice.'

‘I knew about the child,’ Aramis said softly, ‘she was happy Lucien. I can only imagine her suffering.’

‘And who’s fault was that?’ growled Lucien, clenching his fist as though he would beat the Musketeer he had in chains instead of waiting for the guilty one.

‘Porthos did not see you that way either,’ said Aramis ignoring the taunt, ‘the day you came to the garrison to apply to the regiment - you were the best he had seen. He hoped you would return.’ There had been heckling from a man who had known his mother – Lucien had stumbled at his recognition of the man – rallied and fought to a draw with Porthos. But his humiliation was complete – he had not returned.

‘Gatien must have seen great promise in you – to provide for an education, encourage you to join the regiment.’ Now Lucien froze. He walked closer to his prisoner, frowning, ‘what do you know of him?’

‘I was at Savoy,’ said the Musketeer. Lucien came closer and gripped his jacket staring into his face. 

‘Gatien d’Autevielle was the finest man I ever knew,’ Aramis said simply. Sophia had told him about Gatien’s assistance to a young poor boy, his education and encouragement to join the regiment.

Grimaud grimaced and shoved Aramis away from him. He stepped back and sat down. A memory cracked open and sliced through him – the last time he had seen Gatien. He had still young – on the verge of becoming a man. Gatien had come to see him before he was deployed on maneuvers with a group of cadets – to a place called Savoy.

_….he watched the Musketeer walk with long striding steps toward his big black horse – a tall man, powerfully built, broad muscular shoulders straining the seams of his fitted leather tunic, and blue cape swinging from his shoulder. His gleaming polished boots thudded against the floorboards. He pulled black leather gloves over his large capable hands and bent his neck to settle his hat on his head shadowing the deep-set blue eyes and strong contours of his bearded face. His sword gleaming in the sunlight, two muskets slung fore and back over his shoulder, one in his belt. He turned grinning broadly at Lucien, ‘back in a fortnight – no slacking off on your studies!’ his deep voice booming and laughing._

He had never seen him again…

‘Treville murdered him,’ Grimaud muttered. Aramis sighed heavily, ‘I once thought the same. I was bitter and wanted revenge for my brothers. Treville was deceived by the Cardinal and young in his command – he was the first to shoulder the blame.’ Lucien shook his head in disgust, his eyes slitted and dark with barely controlled fury.

‘Gatien was as a brother to him – they grew up together. He grieved his loss heavily,’ said Aramis. ‘Living with remorse and guilt either destroys or makes a man take responsibility – which would Gatien want for those he loved?’

‘This could have turned out differently,’ argued Aramis.

‘Well – let’s see,’ said Grimaud sarcastically, ‘Athos shot the woman I love, killed my child, Treville hid her from me, destroyed her trust in me…’ He put up a finger, ‘and one more thing – they have wanted my death from the beginning - to keep us apart.’ 

‘What is it you want priest? To reform me? To see me better than I am? Or just release you?’

‘All of it,’ laughed Aramis, and then earnestly, ‘you can end this Lucien. Take Sophia and leave – make a new life. She would go with you.’

‘And Athos and Treville would just walk away! They would never let her leave with me,’ he snorted in disbelief, ‘they would hunt me and force her to go back with them.’ He shook his head, ‘you know this Musketeer.‘

He shook a scolding finger at Aramis – for trying to fool him, ‘you do make me laugh priest – but this goes in one direction – until one or all of us are dead.’

‘It doesn’t have to,’ cried Aramis, ‘take her and leave. You have ships – you can go anywhere. Take her and go – she will do anything to save you. I will talk with Treville and Athos.’

‘You will talk with Athos,’ cynicism dripped from Grimaud’s voice, ‘you will talk to Treville…you have talked with Sophia…you have talked to my mother…do you listen to yourself?’ He shook his head in disbelief, ‘you sound crazier than me!’ he laughed mockingly.

‘No Musketeer, I think we are all past talking.’

>>>

Like a fortress of the Lord, the walls of the abbey arose invincible and high from the rocky face of the hill buttressed against its stony wall. Vegetation – bright bougainvillea on the west side, jasmine and trumpet vine on the south and east - was thick and fragrant. She galloped her horse up the curving road and came to a stop outside the tall gate doors. She dismounted and led her horse into the open yard. The stable boy took her reins and she paused to look around - stables to the left, gardens to the right, narrow stairs set into the high rock walls leading to a walkway at the top. She saw an image of two children on those steps and walkway – a boy and a girl - each wielding an imagined sword in the form of a sturdy stick – vigorously engaged in re-enactments of noble battles in defense the realm against Roman and Viking invaders, Sister Agatha chastising them for missing prayers. The images faded slowly until only stone steps remained. She turned to the doorway.

She entered through a narrow and low stone door. When they had visited together Lucien had to duck to enter. She imagined that when Athos came here he had done the same.

She greeted a welcoming nun and explained the purpose of her visit. The nun smiled and waved her arm down the hallway. She knew the way – the abbey was as familiar to her as her own home – maybe better. She knew where the nuns slept, prayed, ate, worked – who was in which room and where errant children could hide.

She entered a room at the end of the residence hallway. It was unremarkable in size or furnishings – but there was a large window with an expansive view of the lush green valley below. A few farms could be seen, their tilled fields like dark patchworks set within a green background. The lake shimmered in the distance. The window was framed with jasmine growing on the outside wall, the room scented and warm from the sun. Sitting in front of the window, dwarfed by the size of the chair, was a tiny aged woman – her face crevassed like an old apple – her cornflower blue eyes hooded with heavy folds. Her head nodded forward on her chest as though she was sleeping. At the sound at the door she raised her head and turned slightly in her chair, ‘Sophia,’ she smiled.

Sophia knelt by the old nun’s chair and took a small sun spotted hand in her own and held it to her cheek, her head bowed. Tears flowed between her fingers. Sister Agatha stroked the child’s hair – no not a child anymore she realized – although this was a familiar scene to the old woman. 

‘It’s Lucien – isn’t it?’ the nun watched the young woman’s face kindly. 

‘He is much changed,’ she said miserably, ‘it is not about me - he battles with something else.’

‘He has many demons,’ Sister Agatha looked out her window, remembering the boy. ‘We think they slumber – but they do not – they are always waiting, silent but watchful.’

Her blue eyes were clear and sharp, ‘will you give up on him?’ Sophia looked quickly at the Sister, shaking her head, resolutely wiping her eyes with her hands.

‘No – never!’ her voice was firm but also hesitant. She looked toward the green vista beyond and then to the old nun as in a confessional, ‘I do not know what to do. I am so afraid,’ her eyes teared again, ‘afraid I could lose him - that I will lose them both – one to death and one that I cannot forgive,’ she whispered.

The Sister snorted, ‘you have never been truly afraid of anything!’ She set her finger under the woman’s chin, as she had done with the child, and lifted her chin, ‘you know what to do Sophia,’ said Sister Agatha firmly.

‘Bring him home.’


	24. These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them. (Rumi)

He heard the whoosh of the rope as it snaked through the air and knew it was meant for him – and he knew who and why. He ducked to the side but was a half second too late - the rope dropping over his head, instantly tightening against his throat, choking him and hauling him off the bench to land heavily on his back on the floor. Instinctively his hands went to his throat. All three men and five boys in the room jumped to their feet turning to look at the perpetrator - and froze.

Anastasia Elisabeth Louise Sophia D’la Croix, a Duchess suo jure - daughter of the aristocracy, from a proud family that extended back through generations to Charlemagne, related to most of the noble houses within the borders of France, including the family currently occupying the throne, more royal than noble, was belaying the rope around a central pole and striding toward the fallen man. As she walked, she swung up a stool which she dropped over her victim, immobilized his arms and sat on it. She had less than ten seconds before he recovered from the shock, freed his arms, grabbed the legs of the stool and threw it and her across the room.

‘You like choking women – hanging them, strangling them with your bare hands!’ she snarled at him leaning close into his face, one hand on the rope, yanking it hard, increasing the ruthless pressure on his neck. He gagged and gasped for breath as he tried to work a finger under the rope from his trapped position.

‘How does it feel?’ she shouted at him. He bared his teeth and growled at her, his face red and contorted with fury. In one graceful movement, she pushed off the stool, leaned down, withdrew his sword - flashing silver as she spun it swiftly through the air to slice through the rope, dropped it, and then she was out the door and running for her horse. She was racing through the gate when Athos staggered to his feet, snatched the noose over his head and hurled it angrily across the room. Cadets ducked. Roaring in fury he ran from the room into the yard, grabbed the reins of a horse being held by a startled cadet, leaped to his back and thundered out of the yard.

Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan stood motionless and then slowly glanced at each other. Porthos clapped his hands and shouted with laughter, ‘I guess she’s back!’

‘That’s what I call an entrance,’ chortled D’Artangan to Aramis clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Any bets?’ he asked the others grinning broadly.

‘Who…..’ stammered Claremont, mesmerized and staring at the empty door, still seeing the glorious young woman, angry eyes flashing shards of blue ice, her beautiful face haloed with masses of dark hair that streamed down her body…praise heaven….her body… the flashing sword….who was she? Dazed and helpless – he might be in love!

Aramis waved a finger in the young cadet’s face, ‘no no no! If Lucien Grimaud knew your thoughts, or thought you had thoughts or imagined you had thoughts or dreamed you had thoughts – this,’ he tapped the young man on the top of his head, ‘would be removed from your neck! No thinking, no swooning, no dreaming…about her!’

Claremont was still staring stunned and worshipful at the door as though the vision he had seen was still there or might, if he wished it hard enough, return. ‘What?’ he mumbled at Athos – not having heard a word that was said to him.

‘Who is she?’ he sighed.

Aramis sighed, as he never wanted to start explaining her story - which began on her family estate, to the northern territories of the Ottoman empire, raised by Janissaries, chased by Ottoman soldiers, rescued by Persian spies, their mission to bring her back to France, a decades plus marriage contract to the eldest son of the Comte de la Fere, a Mongolian goat herder claiming her as a third wife, and a mercenary privateer – because everyone went slack-jawed at some point in the story and he had to start all over or try to elaborate – so it was easier to say, just as he did now, ‘it’s complicated,’ and leave it at that.

A tall dark-haired woman at the table stood suddenly and stared at the laughing Musketeers, ‘aren’t you going to do anything?’ she demanded. The men looked at her in surprise and then at each other blowing out their cheeks and looking around the room for the answer as to what they were going to do. 

Aramis, raking his fingers through his hair shrugged and shuffled his feet, ‘uh…no,’ he said carefully, ‘it’s a…..family thing,’ he finished weakly.

The woman stared at him for a moment, ‘she’s family?’ she asked incredulously. Porthos was striding to the door to follow Athos – just to be sure neither one got killed - ‘might as well be!’ boomed Porthos, ‘she’s can be as much trouble.’

>

Sophia was threading her horse through the streets as fast as she could reasonably do so without running anyone down. She wasn’t sure that Athos was doing the same and thought it more likely that pedestrians were leaping away for their lives and carriage drivers reining their horses to a hard stop tossing their passengers to the floor as he raged through the streets and bore down on her in demonic fury. She reached the entrance to the public park and put her heels to her horse. She knew where she was going – to a relatively little used section where she could face him in some degree of privacy. She raced down the path and could hear shouts of those scattering before a charging horse behind her – heralding Athos’ furious pursuit after her. 

She reached the copse of trees and wound her way carefully along the path to the clearing in the small wood. She dismounted quickly and turned to await his arrival. It would not be long. She heard him driving his horse through the small wood and he rode fast into the clearing, dismounting before the horse had stopped throwing the reins down, taking long angry strides toward her. She did not step back. 

He came within a few feet and stopped. She was accustomed to Athos’ stern face. She was accustomed to his anger. But what she was looking at now exceeded anything she had formerly been accustomed to seeing. He was more than stern or angry or both. The look that filled his granite face and dark eyes sucked the air and light from the space around them. She stood her ground and made the first move.

She stepped angrily toward him, grabbing his tunic in both fists and shook him – or tried to – it being difficult to shake a big man much less a Musketeer rooted in rage. He growled menacingly.

‘Why did you do it?’ she accused him hotly, ‘what is wrong with you?’

He raised his hand to her - but she did not flinch – she glared back at him. He shook his fist at her, ‘you have no right….’ he spit out the words and clenched his fists. He wanted to grab her and shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to drag her to the Bastille and chain her to a wall in the darkest dungeon for the rest of her life. Preferably with a gag over her mouth. 

‘You choked her with your bare hands,’ she cried, ‘you are not a monster! Why?’ She batted at his hand, gripping his tunic and dragged him to her.

‘Why do allow your anger to govern you? You and Lucien – I could kill both of you myself!’

He pushed her – hard – away from him and she stumbled, catching herself from falling. But she did not step back. She did not look away.

‘Damn you!’ he roared at her advancing on her again. Hot tears of anger were forming in her eyes. They stared at each other.

‘What is the rage?’ she whispered, ‘Athos…you are better than this – you do not have to give in!’

‘You don’t know me!’ he bellowed and turned on his heel and stalked to his horse and mounted. 

‘Yes I do!’ she shouted at him and miserable - she watched him ride away.

>>>

It was well past midnight when he was standing in front of the tavern door and hesitated. He pursed his lips, hands on hips – it had to be done and he might as well get it over with – he threw open the door.

She was sitting at a table toward the back, where she could see who was entering and who was approaching her. The door to the kitchen and out the back was to her left. Lifetime lessons of knowing the value of escape he thought grimly.

He strode through the crowded room, tables clustered closely together, filled with men, women on their laps, animated conversations or card players. Serving women wound their way expertly between tables skillfully avoiding the grasping hands of drunken men. The night was just getting started.

He dropped into a chair next to her, removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. He didn’t look at her. She poured wine from the bottle on the table and pushed it to him. He studied at it for a moment and then he lifted the glass and drained it. She refilled the glass.

‘I did not ask her to do that,’ Milady de Winter spoke firmly, but smiled, ‘she is a force.’ He snorted, ‘she made her point,’ he muttered. He threw back the second glass of wine and set it heavily on the table. She refilled it.

‘When she was fleeing Persia, she was assaulted on the road – brigands,’ he told her, ‘they raped and killed one woman. He strangled her, attempted rape – he would have killed her. She killed him instead. I should have remembered.’ He and the others had been searching for her, their mission to bring her back to Paris. The attack had been brutal.

He sighed heavily, ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to her, ‘it was inexcusable.’ He did not tell her that a few days before he had choked another woman - who was running away from him. She had helped Grimaud – defended him. It had infuriated him to the point of wanting to kill her. It revolted him - his lack of control and pounding impulse for violence – but he had little desire to examine it or understand it. He had accused Sophia of not knowing him but right now - he wasn’t sure he knew himself. His anger seemed….unfocused and uncontrolled.

‘Thank you,’ she said simply, her hands folded and still on the table. They were silent.

‘Her nightmares can be violent,’ he added, ‘I always wondered if he understood….’

‘He did,’ she told him. Lucien rarely left her alone at night and if he had to be away, he insisted she return to the estate or stay in the palace or with the Duchess.

Athos looked away and curled his lip from an unexpected stab of anger.

‘Did you know?’ he asked. ‘About the child?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I knew.’ His eyes flickered to her. Everyone but him - she had not trusted him with it.

‘She was happy Athos. She didn’t think about consequences.’

‘Damnation,’ he raked his hand through his hair, shaking his head. ‘Lucien…he’s…..’

‘Yes,’ sighed Milady, ‘He is obsessed with his anger and wants revenge…for many wrongs it would seem

‘Can she stop him?’

‘Can you stop Treville? Can you stop yourself?’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Why cannot you and Treville make peace with her and Lucien – let them be happy. We do not choose who we love Athos.’ You should know at least that she thought to herself wearily.

‘If she cannot influence him….’

‘There will be more deaths – yours, Treville, the others….the list is long. Maybe hers too.’ Athos started and frowned at her, ‘what do you…’

‘She will try to save him – whatever the risk,’ Milady said ‘And you.’ He looked away – he had not thought about what she might do – or the choice she may have to make – or what that choice might be.

‘I don’t know,’ she was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. Unexpected tears burned behind her eyes and she tried not to look at him.

‘Anne,’ he said, looking at her small, white hand on the table. He covered it with his. ‘Anne,’ he started again, but couldn’t seem to get any farther.

‘Are we out of time?’ the words sprang from her mouth and she was immediately furious and ashamed. She had not intended to ask such a question. She glanced uncertainly towards him.

He looked into her beautiful emerald eyes, questioning and soft. He wanted to stroke her hair. He loved its silky feel through his fingers. 

‘I don’t know,’ he murmured, taking her hand in his, turning it over to run his fingers over her palm.

Memories rose, unbidden and undenied - the first time he had seen her – so young, glossy black hair like a raven’s cascade of feathers across her beautiful shoulders, green eyes teasing and inviting – she was dancing, her bare arms raised as she twirled with the music. It had been a glorious day, a festival day – music, dancing, stolen kisses – she had tasted like warm peaches and sherry punch, her jasmine scent the same as that which he now breathed in – like a man who has been holding his breath for a long time. He had known then what he wanted. When last he saw her he had also known what he wanted - but less certain that he could have it.

She was studying him, ‘you look tired,’ she said. His face was gray with exhaustion, eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness. He was holding his arm as though it pained him. He glanced at her startled at the tenderness in her voice – and at the warmth that uncoiled deep inside of him. Such a simple phrase – you look tired she had said.

He was tired – he was very tired. He’d had enough of conflict and fighting. Would it be over when he killed Grimaud? The dark figure across the battlefield - emerging from the clearing drifting clouds of smoky fog from cannon and musket fire, the rush of rage that raced through him and the furious desire to sprint across the field and slaughter it – he hadn’t even known it was Grimaud. What had he seen? What had he wanted to destroy?

‘It’s late,’ she said, ‘I’m going home,’ and she rose from the chair. She walked around the table toward the door, hesitated and turned back to him. She held out her hand. He looked up and their eyes met. He stood and folded her hand in his. They walked to the door and out into the night.


	25. An eastern prize...

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly and wants to rip to shreds all your erroneous notions of the truth that make you fight within yourself, dear one, and with others, causing the world to weep on too many fine days... The Beloved sometimes wants to do us a great favor: Hold us upside down and shake all the nonsense out. (Hafez)

 

He unbuckled his belt with sword and muskets and let it drop noisily onto the desk. He dropped into the chair, blowing out his cheeks and leaning forward, elbows on his knees, raking his hands through his hair. He paused – someone was in the room. He looked up, his eyes sliding to his musket.

‘You would most likely think shooting me was justified,’ she said, stepping forward from the shadows. He snorted, ‘I think I’d rather use a cane on your backside,’ he said, ‘but that would only further validate your actions – wouldn’t it.’

‘Maybe not this time,’ she said with a small smile and continued toward him, reaching to gently remove his scarf from his neck, lifting the candle she was holding and running her cool fingers over the abrasions. She set the candle on a table along with her bag and removed several vials. She set to work, cleaning and applying a cooling salve and wrapping his neck with a clean cloth. He did not object or move and neither spoke.

Finished, she stepped back, leaning against the desk. Even in the dim light of candles he could see her gaunt look, the pallor of her skin, the dark shadows under her eyes. He reached for her hand – it was cold, and he held it between his own.

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I am unforgivable,’ she declared. He shook his head at her, ‘well it is you,’ he said, ‘one quarter fury, three quarters remorse.’ She smiled at him and the sun came out – she raised one of his hands and kissed it. They were quiet.

‘I was thinking about when the last time was that we were happy and laughed – all of us,’ she said. He shook his head, shrugged and waited. 

‘Do you remember the wedding – in the village – the dancing,’ she looked at him from lowered eyes - slightly embarrassed. ‘I was so…ungainly!’ He remembered – there was nothing about that trip that he did not remember.  
>  
_……They had been traveling for more than a week and rode into a small village where a wedding celebration was in full swing. Music was spilling out of the open tavern door, tables and chairs shoved to the corners of the room to make way for dancing. Two lines were formed, and energetic celebrants were whirling and twirling their partners prettily, clapping hands and exchanging partners, the building shaking from the stomping of many feet in time with the lively tempo of the music._

_She stood in the open doorway watching the dancers as they laughed and cheered, calling out to each other as their feet moved the dancing lines rhythmically. D’Artagnan took in her wondering look, unbuckled his weapons belt and pushed it into Aramis’ startled arms._

_He grinned boyishly and grabbed her hand, ‘shall we dance?’ he asked, winking at her roguishly._

_Her eyes widened in both alarm and excitement. ‘I don’t know these dances,’ she protested, her iridescent eyes gleaming in delight yet setting her weight against his pull._

_‘Country dances,’ he told her, ‘the easiest to learn and no one cares how much you trip over your own feet or stomp on theirs – come on!’ He didn’t wait for her agreement dragging her with him into the dancing line._

_He had frowned. The room was crowded, and there were too many men to suit his liking. Her security could be at risk and besides they needed to keep moving towards Paris. He stepped forward to object and found Aramis’ big arm firmly blocking his way._

_‘She’s young – what girl doesn’t want to dance with a handsome man,’ Aramis said, waving his hand toward the dancers. ‘I believe you must have danced with a woman at one time – yes? at least once?’_

_He set his mouth in annoyance. ‘D’Artagnan is right there,’ Aramis pointed to the young man vigorously swinging his partner who was trying to match his steps and going in the wrong direction at almost every turn. They were both laughing as were the dancers around them, the young men particularly eager to help with her instruction when she passed to them as the line shifted to new partners._

_‘And we are right here,’ Aramis told his frowning brother. ‘Porthos will knock them all down like nine pins should anyone look sideways at her, much less pinch her bottom.’ Porthos, snorted, and asked, ‘you did confiscate her dagger,’ he deep voice rumbled in amusement_

_He watched her. She was laughing, and it transformed her serious face and shielded eyes. By that time, he had known who she was to him. It had been shocking – the memory triggered by the unusual color and iridescence of her eyes that surfaced a few days into their journey – the link she was to his past, his family, his father’s dreams for his eldest son. She had been a child and he had seen those eyes only a few times before she had gone east with her father. He had never seen the like until he looked at a portrait of a young woman in Treville’s office and understood why Treville had sent him to find her and bring her to Paris. Treville had known the full span of the gossamer web that enclosed and linked them all - extending from the past into the present and perhaps the future._

_He had watched her dance and sounds had faded the edges of his vision blurring and suddenly he saw her as she might have been on their wedding day. She would have been young, because he would have asked his father to obtain permission to marry her as soon as she came of age. He could see her in her wedding dress, wearing her gold and chestnut hair down because she knew that was how he liked it, flowers woven into the wavy tresses and tumbling down her back. Her cheeks would be flushed with nervousness and excitement, blue eyes focused on his, winking with anticipation as she walked to him on her father’s arm. He would have taken her anxious hand and whispered to her – you are safe with me. His kiss at the marriage vows would be gentle, and she would have caught her breath when his tongue touched her parted lips, promising a wedding night of love and passion._

_She was an aristocratic bride and would have been attentive to their guests at the wedding breakfast, his father walking proudly with her on his arm to the tenant families to accept their congratulations and she would be sure that there was plenty of ale for the men, cake and a coin for every child. He would have danced with her and kissed her - her lips tasting of spice and warm strawberries…_

She watched as recollections crossed his face and smiled, ‘you remember.’ He nodded, ‘yes, I remember. I don’t recall you being particularly ungainly,’ he said gallantly, ‘at least no more than usual,’ he smiled and she chuckled.

He studied her face and wondered - would he have ever noticed a beguiling green-eyed girl? Or would he have been so in love with his beautiful wife to never see another or want another or think about a different life and the secret delights Paris might hold for him? Or if tempted – would he have resisted? Would he have been content to have pleased his family and met his responsibilities? He would never know the answers to these questions. They had passed each other by – the union intended by their fathers undone by distance and time.

‘Do you ever wonder what our lives might have been if we had married as our fathers intended?’ he asked her. He had never asked her this question. Surprise filled her eyes and then amusement.

‘I assume you mean if I not gone east with my father and we managed to avoid a beguiling green eyes temptress and a mysterious tall dark man?’ she asked drily.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘assuming we avoided all that.’

‘Anne told me once that she wished I had married you and she could have just been the mistress,’ she smiled.

‘Mmm,’ his eyes widened at this consideration and said drily, ‘that of course, would have been so much less complicated.’ A wicked gleam came into his eyes, ‘why do I think you would have shot my horse out from under me if you thought I was going to a mistress?’ his mouth twitched with amusement.

‘Not your horse husband,’ she replied with mock seriousness, ‘just you.’ He chuckled – and believed it.

‘Are you imagining I might have been an obedient wife?’ she asked him, ‘an advantageous marriage and the daughter of which your father would have been proud?’

She pondered this for a moment, ‘I do think I would have wanted to please your mother and father – I understand that part well.’ She knew the responsibilities for noble daughters where marriage contracts confer social and economic benefits. Her blue eyes twinkled mischievously, ‘but as to being a dutiful wife…’

‘Perhaps it wouldn’t have been necessary to be too dutiful,’ he remarked. ‘There might have been some…flexibility.’ His father and mother would have been well pleased with her.

‘Or, she warned playfully, ‘I might have been the un-remorseful hellion you see before you.’

‘Ah - then there’s that,’ he smiled at her, ‘Instead of a woman, I could have married an incendiary device.’ She threw back her head and laughed.

Her smile faded and she touched his cheek, ‘I had no choices – not in marriage contracts, or to stay with my mother or go with my father, to be lost in Persia or return to France.’ She stroked his cheek gently, ‘but if I had been given one choice among all those taken from me, I would have liked to choose you and try to make you happy. That was never a choice and it never will be – for either of us.’

He stood and cupped her face between his two hands, ‘Sophie,’ he breathed.

‘You and Lucien will kill each other with hate,’ she whispered, ‘whoever lives, I still lose you both.’ She leaned her head against his chest, ‘Athos - I do not have strength for that.’

She brought her hands to cover his, sadness filling her blue winking eyes, ‘please – forgive him – let him go,’ she whispered. He shook his head, ‘I cannot.’

Anne had told him once that his love was not gentle or given with the best of his qualities. Rather, it was noble arrogance and conceit, stubborn, selfish - cluttered with judgements, expectations and poignant hopes– it ranged wide – protective, alluring, provoking and intractable. 

He held her gently feeling the rapid anxious beat of her heart, her ragged breath warming his neck. He had not been able to let her go – was it only that she was the link to his ancestral home, his family – his father? At one time he would have yearned for the past to remain shuttered to stop its whispers - you have failed. He would not fail her. He would not fail Treville.


	26. We sat inside the cypress shadow where amazement…twined its slow growth into us   (Rumi)

Gatien d’Autevielle and Jean-Armand d’Treville were both cousins and best friends – and they looked like brothers - blond, striking blue eyes, strong masculine faces. They had grown up together, their families connected through marriage, proximity of family homes, and the close friendship of their fathers. Other than Gatien being taller, it could be hard to tell the two young men apart.

On a warm summer evening, the air scented with jasmine, freshly cut grasses and wild rose, they cantered their horses down the long drive to an imposing manor house. It was a beautiful country estate home, three stories with a white stone front, two wings extending to enclose a courtyard completed with curving graveled driveway and a center fountain. A watery plume rising from the fountain sparkled in the newly risen moonlight. Behind the house two turrets, all that remained of the original castle, rose dark and forbidding. Lights gleamed in the windows of the galleries and music poured through doors opened onto the balcony. Carriages were lined along the drive, waiting their turn to deliver their gaily dressed passengers. 

The two young men were resplendent in their evening dress, their thigh high boots polished and gleaming, their fitted breeches showing their muscular legs to good advantage. Their shirts were snowy white against the black of their short tunics, displaying their broad shoulders and tapering torsos. Young, handsome, swords gleaming, in high-spirits and anticipating the evening ahead of them, the two men strode together up the wide stone steps leading into the foyer displaying the easy grace that comes when men are strong and practiced with sword and musket.

The ballroom was aglow with candles. Chandeliers sparkled and the rich silks covering the walls shimmered from candles set in silvered sconces and footed candelabras placed along the length of the room. Dancers were in two lines in the center of the ballroom moving through the steps of the allemande, men turning their partners, their arms raised prettily. Laughter and animated conversations mingled with the music to fill the room to its corners with pleasing sounds. People drifted in groups or in couples through other rooms for refreshments, or onto the balcony for a breath of air, or down the stairs to the garden for a moment of stolen privacy in the shadows

Jean-Armand stood at the top of the short staircase descending into the ballroom and surveyed the room. His eyes traveled quickly through the groups of people standing and chatting in animated conversation while watching the dancers. He looked at the giggling clusters of young women, close to their mothers or chaperones, surreptitiously watching young men from behind their fans. Many of these admiring eyes were turned to the two tall handsome men now standing at the top of the stairs. He spotted her.

She was dancing, her movements practiced and graceful. Her dance partner led her through the ballet of steps, hand on her waist or arm. She turned her head looking up at the man who held her hand, blue eyes sparkling, rose lips parted and cheeks flushed. Her golden silk dress glowed in the candlelight, her skin creamy and smooth above the bodice fitted to her slender frame and narrowing to her small waist, the skirt flaring over her hips and cascading to the floor. He had never seen a more enchanting woman. 

Gatien had seen her too and grinned wolfishly at his cousin, giving him a push. ‘Go on,’ he cheered, ‘try not to trample all over her feet - you dance like an elephant!’ he laughed at his joke and thumped his cousin on the back.

The music stopped, the dancers clapping for the musicians and she turned, still accompanied by her partner, to return to her mother’s side. She saw him, and her iridescent blue eyes lit up, lips curving into a smile. His chest tightened, heart suddenly pounding so hard he thought others could hear it. He smiled back and walked towards her.

He danced with her several times that night. They walked together on the balcony in the moonlight – seeking a moment of coveted privacy in the shadows. He took her in his arms and kissed her. Her lips were soft and smooth, tasting of the sweet sherry she favored. She promised to meet him at the district fair in two weeks.

>>>>

‘May I speak with you sir,’ Jean-Armand was addressing his father. They were in his father’s study, books lining every available surface of the wall, piled onto tables and unoccupied chairs.

‘Yes, of course Jean-Armand,’ his father replied, pleased to see his youngest son. ‘Push the books aside. You enjoyed the ball last night? I saw you at a distance with Louisa – she looked very lovely.’ He smiled at his son. He had an idea why the young man wanted to speak to him.

‘Yes father, I had a very enjoyable evening,’ Jean-Armand replied, clasping his hands together to keep them from shaking and studying the pattern of the carpet intently. He took a deep breath.

‘I wish to offer for her,’ he said, blushing furiously. ‘I am asking your permission and support sir.’

Silence followed. Jean-Armand ventured to look up at his father. He was studying his pipe as though the tobacco leaves offered some advice on his son’s request.

‘I could not be more pleased for Louisa to become my daughter,’ his father consulted his pipe tobacco further on these matters, ‘there may be impediments. Jean-Armand frowned slightly.

‘I understand de l’Croix has made an offer for her,’ his father said. Jean-Armand frowned, he hadn’t known about the Duke. 

He’s too old for her,’ he countered weakly. He knew the age of this suitor would not matter– only his family heritage and wealth.

‘And then there’s the matter of your profession,’ his father continued. ‘What will her life be as a soldier’s wife, living on a soldier’s pay? She will have a dowry, but I will not have enough to settle on you to raise your circumstances to that which she is accustomed.’

‘I know Father,’ he said. ‘I have explained to her how different her life would be. I do not believe she will refuse me.’ They had sworn their love to each other. He believed it would be enough.

His father smiled at his son, but his heart ached for him. He was well pleased with this young man – his integrity, sense of honor and duty. He was well-spoken and, although he and his cousin had their share of escapades, Jean-Armand was settling into a serious man, with capabilities that would serve him well in the military. He was worthy of any young woman – regardless of his fortune – or lack of it.

‘I will go with you to talk with her father,’ he said to his love-struck son. It was the most he could do to help the young man win his suit. And, if it failed, he would be there to help his son with his heart-ache.

>>>

Treville was standing at the window and had stopped talking. Athos dropped his eyes. He knew the outcome of this story, without hearing the details. Treville and d’Autevielle had joined the newly formed King’s regiment. Both men distinguished themselves early, in both skill and character. Treville had risen quickly to assume captaincy of the fledgling regiment and lead it forward.

Treville was watching the daughter of the woman in his story cross the park. She moved with easy grace, her chestnut hair loosened and cascading over her straight slender shoulders and down her back. If she looked up, he would see the high cheekbones, firm jaw, and winged brows framing her extraordinary blue eyes, their iridescence winking at him. He could turn and look at the portrait of her mother and see the same conformation of face. He had found the portrait in another room in the palace and had it moved to his office. Athos had not considered it to have any significance for his Minister. Every room in the palace was filled with portraits of people not connected to the occupants. It wasn’t until the occasion when Sophia stood under the portrait, that he realized its importance.  
‘She married another,’ said the Musketeer, ‘you never saw her again.’ He waited for his Minister, seemingly lost in thought with the past. Treville nodded but did not answer him. The young woman started up the stairs into the ground floor of the palace. She would soon be here.

He turned back to his desk, handing a document to his Musketeer. ‘Here is the agreement. Look it over before we go.’ Athos took it and settled back to read it.  


Jean-Armand d’Treville turned back to the window. He had lied, because, he had seen her again.

>>>

Letters…documents …he was waving a fistful at her – as though she was responsible. His face was contorted in that way when he was frustrated and wanted to hit or bellow at someone or draw his enormous sword and stab something – anything other than sit in his huge ministerial chair and attend to the paperwork on his desk. Like a Minister of the Crown was supposed to do.

‘You are like a 2-year old who needs a nap,’ Sophia admonished him, moving from the doorway to the huge desk covered with piles of paper, scrolls, quills and inkpots of varying amounts. Hands to hips, she surveyed the chaos. Treville’s clerk was hovering close to the Minister, wringing his hands at his master’s random rifling of documents. 

‘How are you to manage a King, run a war and a country when you cannot tame your own desk? 

Aramis and Porthos snickered and both Treville and Sophia whipped to them scowling. The Musketeers looked elsewhere. Athos smiled, ‘are you here to take charge?’

‘Of you lot? Hopeless’ she countered, ‘besides, I forgot my rope,’ she narrowed her amused eyes at him and he snorted but inclined is head in submission.  
‘You are defeated Monsieur,’ she teased him. ‘Most definitely,’ he said, rising to depart, ‘I know when to retreat.’

She turned to Treville and pulled a packet of letters from her pocket and handed them to him. He looked at the handwriting and frowned. ‘Where did you…’  
‘The workers at the house unearthed a trunk from a closet in a third floor room,’ she studied him for a moment. ‘It is her hand.’ It wasn’t a question – she was as familiar with the handwriting as he.

He nodded and ran his fingers over the packet. He looked up into serious blue eyes. ‘We will read them when I get back,’ he said handing the letters back to her. She nodded placing her hand on his arm. He smiled and kissed her cheek.

‘See what you can do with this?’ he waved his hand over the desk. She laughed, ‘chuck it all in the fire?’ she suggested. The clerk paled at this comment – he wasn’t sure the lady wouldn’t do it.

‘As you think best,’ he countered and turned to his Musketeers. ‘All right – let’s get this done.’ The men strode from the room.

‘Do not bring him back late - I’m going to order his dinner!’ she called after them. She sat in his chair and reached for the document at the top of the pile.

Several hours later Treville’s clerk gathered up stack of scrolls to take to his office, sort into shelves and send out the signed orders and reports to the council. ‘We are making progress,’ she sat back in the chair and stretched her back. ‘Now to the correspondence,’ she glanced outside and noted the hour.

‘They are taking their time,’ she mumbled irritated that Athos was not bringing Treville back as expected. No doubt they stopped in a tavern for ale and a few hours away from the palace. Her irritation was that they had not taken her with them.

‘Where has the Minister gone?’ he asked her.

‘To see Lorraine.’

>>>

She raised the document high over her head and let it go. She watched it float down to rest on the pile in front of her. She looked at the assembled stacks neatly categorized and organized on Treville’s desk. Finished. It had taken the entire afternoon. She had chastised his clerk several times for allowing the Minister’s desk to run wild. He needed to take a firm hand with his master.

She stood and walked to the tall window. It was later that she had realized. There was a knock at the door and a page entered carrying a tray. ‘Set it there,’ she said, indicating a table with two chairs,’ thank you.’ The page left.

She returned to the window watching the shadows deepen in the garden. She pulled the packet of letters from her pocket, turning it over. She had looked at two but had not read the rest. She had many questions.

A noise at the door – she looked up. Athos was standing silently in the doorway.

‘There you are,’ she exclaimed, ‘I was just assembling the scolding I was about to give both of you! Where have you been? She didn’t wait for his answer, walking to the desk and waving her hands.

‘There! Sorted, organized and ready for him. I expect to not have to do this every week – it’s ridiculous,’ she laughed and smiled at Athos – who was still standing in the doorway. She frowned at him.

‘His dinner is getting cold, where is he?’

Athos was not moving from the doorway. Why was he standing there? She was confused and looked down at the desk and frowned again. A sense of foreboding began to seep into her – where was Treville? He started to walk towards her and she watched him get closer – alarm was sounding clearly in her head and clutching at her deep in her stomach. Suddenly her eyes widened, and she stepped back, shaking her head. She ran her hand over the back of Treville’s chair. Athos came closer. She held out her hand to stop him, not looking at him, stepping back, ‘no,’ she murmured.

‘Sophie…’

‘No…,’ she was insistent and louder this time, hunching her shoulders and turning away from him, crossing her arms over her chest and hugging her arms, ‘no.’ She took a step and her knees buckled. He caught her before she fell. She tried to push away from him, but he held her tightly against him.

‘No,..’ the sob caught in her throat and she sagged against him.

>

The light from the single candle cast a small circle of light on the desk in the dark room. Athos was sitting on the sofa, a woman sleeping fitfully against his chest. He stroked her hair back from her face. She was flushed, her eyes bruised and swollen from unchecked tears. She was gripping his shirt.

He was relieved she had fallen asleep – Treville’s death and the circumstances were shocking. He could not absorb the reality of it and he was relieved to be in the dark room and away from the tumult he knew was taking place elsewhere.

He had been careful to tell her the truth, ‘he took three bullets before Grimaud shot him,’ he told her, ‘and…there was a hesitation.’ He didn’t know if these details would matter – they didn’t matter to him.

Why had there been so few of them accompanying Treville? There were over 800 soldiers encamped with Lorraine and they had known that Gascon and Grimaud were there. There was every reason to be more cautious. But Treville had not asked for more guards and he had not even thought to suggest it. Should he have foreseen it?

She stirred again in his arms and he stroked her arm quieting her restlessness. He lay his cheek against her hair. I’m sorry he said silently to her. Tears stung at the back of his eyes.

He felt her start awake and lay silently against him. She raised her tear ravaged face to his and started to sit up. She rubbed her forehead and took his hand, ‘you should go – your men will need you.’

‘I’m not leaving you,’ he said watching her work to collect herself. She looked exhausted, her face pale and drawn.

‘I want to go and sit with him,’ she said quietly, struggling against the waves of emotion threatening to engulf her. ‘You should be with the others.’

He stood with her, and wrapped her again in his embrace, ‘send word if you need me.’ She nodded but he didn’t think she heard him. He watched her walk slowly from the room. 

He looked at the desk and empty chair. He walked to the table with the single candle, hesitating and then, with thumb and forefinger – extinguished the light.


	27. When I die, don’t say he’s gone. Death has nothing to do with going away....

The sun sets and the moon sets,  
but they’re not gone.(Rumi)  
>  
_Someone was shaking her. She tried to shrug the hand off her shoulder, pulled the covers over her head and snuggled closer to Samira. Her sister was warm, and Sophia buried her head under the covers. But the shaking wouldn’t stop. A deep voice, firm and commanding whispered in her ear. It was Sukh._

_She turned on her back and pulled down the covers to frown at him. His dark eyes were stern and unyielding. Yashmeen was behind him, her lined face anxious and holding clothes in one hand. She was also carrying a holder with a candle that illuminated their faces leaving the rest of the room and everyone in it in deep shadow._

_She knew to do as he instructed. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed and hopped off the bed. The floor was cold under her bare feet as was the air in the room and she shivered in the dark. Yashmeen stepped in front of Sukh pulling off her nightgown and dressing her in pants, boots, shirt, and jacket. She stuffed her hair under a boy’s cap and wrapped a scarf around the cap, her face and neck. Only her eyes were uncovered. Once dressed, Sukh led her swiftly from the bedroom, through the hallways that led to the kitchens and out onto the rear courtyard. A stable boy was trying to hold his horse quiet and still. The animal was agitated, stamping his feet, his breath smoking and curling in the cold air. Saddlebags were tied to the back of the saddle. There was a strong smell of smoke and she could hear the commotion from the street, running feet and shouting. She looked in that direction and saw the sky beyond the house was glowing red and orange as though someone had lit a hundred lanterns in front of their house. She turned to Sukh who shook his head at her. This was not the time to ask questions._

_Sukh grasped Yashmeen’s arm. You know what to do he said quietly. He mounted his horse and stretched out his arm to Sophia. In one movement, she jumped to grasp his arm firmly and he swung her up behind him. He lifted the long cloak attached at his neck and covered her completely with it. She was slight, and he hoped that in the dark no one would think there was another rider behind him. She couldn’t wrap her arms completely around him but griped the sides of his jacket. He turned the horse toward the gate that led to the rear of the property. He looked back at the courtyard. It was empty. She didn’t know where they were going and didn’t know who was chasing them._

It was one of the first stories she had told him. ‘You escaped,’ said Treville. She nodded. ‘We moved several times over the years – Sukh was cautious.’  


You didn’t argue with Sukh,’ Treville observed, his sharp blue eyes twinkling in amusement. 

‘It didn’t occur to me,’ she confessed. ‘He impressed one as rather big,’ she laughed. More like a mountain - Sukh had been part of her life since her earliest days in the east – sent by the Ottoman court to protect her father’s household – and her. She remembered bending her neck back as far as possible to look up at him and how she held onto one arm while he swung her back and forth – and the size of his sword – it seemed as tall as her.

‘Soldiers can be stubborn too,’ she informed him dryly.

‘Not just any soldier,’ remarked Treville, ‘a Janissary – the finest military unit there is, even I must admit. I am grateful that you had Sukh to protect you,’ he told her, ‘and to teach you. You owe your survival to him.’ She nodded and looked away, tears pricking her eyes. She could barely think of the soldier who had protected and cared for her, their little family – Yashmeen and the children - without waves of homesickness and longing sweeping through her.

Priests had found them and came to see Sukh – in their small house in the village on the high plains. She and Yashmeen had sat on the floor behind the door listening to the priest translate the letter. A man named Treville had sent a letter to Sukh, telling him of his connection to her family, and those who never lost hope of finding her, thanking him for his service to her and the years that he had protected and cared for her. The priests knew Captain Treville, telling Sukh that he was the best and most honorable of men.

She knew that Sukh pondered over several long nights if he should take them and go deeper into the mountains or farther north into his homeland - the Mongolian territories – to hide her forever. She watched him anxiously – she did not want to return to France. She did not know this man – Treville – nor did she remember anything of her life there. But Sukh thought hard about the captain’s letter and the priests’ words praising the captain’s honor and integrity and, in the end, he told her that she was a child of east and west – and it was time for her to go to her home in the west.

‘I am grateful beyond measure that he entrusted you to me,’ Treville said quietly. ‘I will not let him down.’ She knew well these ties of honor between soldiers – even if they never met – they would adhere to that which they believed a sacred trust. She had not answered him. The weight of Sukh’s absence had settled deep inside of her.

She sat in a corner, close to the windows, watching the line of people walk slowly through the room – thinking of how she would like to kill them all. She had given the anger she felt free rein to imagine the manner of death selected for these court sycophants, ambitious and deceitful politicians, incompetent generals. She should never have come here – Sukh had been wrong. Treville had believed she would be the daughter of the aristocracy into which she was born – but she was not. They argued incessantly about Lucien. She hated this court – she hated his service to it – his loyalty, his duty, his honor – and now he was dead.

He took her hunting. They stood together watching the King’s entourage assemble for a hunt – the King ascending a stairway to sit on his horse, stewards, Musketeers, visiting dignitaries, ladies in tiny hats, their long colorful riding habits sweeping the ground, dogs, falcons, handlers, – the noisy departure resembling a departing circus. They watched the retinue until they rounded a bend in the road and the sound faded and then they turned to mount their horses and rode off in the other direction.

‘What are we hunting?’ she asked him. He glanced at her and said with a sly smile, ‘rabbits.’

Her eyes widened in surprise, ‘Rabbits? Not deer or boar?’ she asked. Rabbits!

‘I like rabbit,’ he told her, ‘and, I brought this.’ He pulled a bow and a bundle of arrows from a pack. ‘I understand you are rather good with it.’ She grinned in delight- taking the bow and testing it. It was a good weight for her. ‘Athos advised,’ he told her.

Later, as they skinned and cooked their prey they traded hunting stories. She relaxed as they sat around their fire eating rabbit, discussing Sukh’s training. She did not like the palace – uncomfortable under the curious scrutiny of the court. She was happy when he had time to take her hunting or riding. She knew Treville had many questions – but he tempered his curiosity. He wanted her to trust him.

‘Did my mother like to hunt?’ she asked him. He glanced at her smiling, pleased at this first display of interest in her family.

‘She liked to ride, but not to hunt,’ he replied. ‘You are an excellent horsewoman. Did you ride with Sukh?’ She threw back her head laughing.

‘Sukh is Mongolian- they are part horse! They were born on horses! So,’ she asked, blue eyes winking, ‘am I excellent enough to let me ride the King’s stallion?

The stallion was a gift, but the King did not ride him, thinking the horse too unruly. She had asked Treville to obtain permission for her, but he had resisted. Now he rolled his eyes at her, ‘Perhaps.’ She grinned at her victory.

She looked at him for a long moment, hesitant, blue eyes glimmering, ‘would she be pleased with me?’

‘Yes,’ he said gently. ‘What do you want to know Sophia?’ He guessed there was more to her question.

‘I wasn’t told about her death,’ she said, eyes downcast. ‘I thought she was alive.’ He frowned. She watched him purse his mouth in anger. ‘Your father didn’t tell you?’ She shook her head.

He was silent for a while – staring off into the wood, considering – and then seemed to decide. ‘I will answer any question you care to ask.’

She looked around the room. Musketeers and Red Guard were stationed at points along the four walls. Footed candelabras were lighted at the four corners of the bier and along the walls. The light was dim and mourners, paying their respects, walked silently past the dead man, dressed in his ministerial robes, hands folded over a rosary. Ministers and their wives, courtiers, prominent merchants and their wives, military officers and soldiers filed slowly past, pausing for a second with bowed heads. They glanced at her as they passed by, but she ignored them all. She didn’t want anyone here – she wanted to be alone. She fingered the packet letters she had brought to him. He had said they would read them later.

They had found the first bundle of letters together in one of the trunks he had pulled from a closet in a closed wing of her family home in Paris. Her mother kept all the letters she received and copies of some she sent. They found subsequent bundles in different trunks. As she read them he answered questions of her family, friends he knew and remembered and her mother. He told her he had offered for her – but she had chosen another. He could never give her the life she enjoyed and military life suited him. Her mother was content in her marriage and they remained friends. She watched him as he talked and she knew that he lied to her, but did not understood what it was he lied about. Not yet.

When she woke in the abbey, she didn’t know who she was, or where she was, or what had happened to her. There was an old nun and a man sitting by her bed holding her hand, his blue eyes intent on her. Over the following days he stayed next to her, telling her how she came to be there and of the death of the child she carried.

It had taken a few days for her memory to completely return – Rochfort sending the guard to arrest her, fleeing with Anne , Athos crashing through the door roaring at her to run, the commotion in the yard and Lucien riding hard towards her, his hand outstretched. She remembered nothing after that and when she asked Treville where Lucien was, he said he didn’t know – most likely he had gone to sea. 

And after that there were only arguments with Treville and others thought Lucien had destroyed the trust between them – but that was not true. She was dismayed and furious at his unyielding stance against Lucien – but he was still the man she knew. He was just wrong.

Now, she wanted to stand up and shout at all these people and at him, but instead she left the room, pacing restlessly in the hallway. A man was walking hurriedly toward her, tugging on his tunic to straighten it, patting his wig into place. A servant was running to keep pace. He looked up and spotted her, smiling anxiously at her.

‘Lavoie!’ she grasped his outstretched hands. ‘Oh, my dear,’ he wailed embracing her, ‘what dreadful news.’ He stepped back surveying her and clucking his tongue in sympathy and vague disapproval of her disheveled appearance. Lavoie had his career in the palace rescued by Treville - following a debacle involving a botched attempt to steal the crown jewels – by a thief he had befriended as a boy working in the palace. A kind man, if at times naïve – he had befriended a lonely and homesick young woman – bringing hot chocolate and little sweet cakes to her apartments late into the night, helping her to navigate the complexities of a western court.

He gave instructions to the servant, ‘hot chocolate, soup, bread, the little cakes she likes,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘tell the cook and bring it here – quickly!’  
He glanced at the curious courtiers watching them and pulled her into a small chamber. ‘I reckon you have not eaten all day,’ he said fussing and peering into her face, ‘it’s very late - you look exhausted my dear.’

A gentle knock at the door announced the arrival of several covered trays and enough food for most of the people waiting to pay respects to the dead Minister. The servant whispered in Lavoie’s ear and he sighed. ‘I must go, duties await,’ he told her. ‘Eat something!’ he ordered, chucking her under the chin and widening his eyes at her. ‘I’ll return as soon as I can.’ 

She slipped back inside the room, to her chair in the corner. The line dwindled until only a few dignitaries lingered and exchanged quiet remarks and glanced toward her as if waiting for her to speak to them. Her impassive face signaled there would be no conversation with her tonight. The last of them exited the room.  
She was alone with him at last. She moved closer and studied his still face. She pulled the packet of letters from her pocket, opened the first one and with a quiet voice, she started to read.


	28. And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. (KGibran)

She stepped out of the cooling bath water, dried herself and slipped on her dressing gown. She walked quickly from the bathing room to her chamber. She dragged the small chaise toward the fire, sat on the end and leaned forward to unwind the towel around her head. She flipped her wet hair back and paused for a moment – staring into the fire. Absently, she picked up the comb and pulled it through her tousled wet hair. The comb caught on the tangles and impatiently she jerked at the comb, wincing at the pain. She yanked again at the snarls.

She sensed his presence, his dark sensuous energy encircling her as he moved forward from the shadows of the room. He raised one leg to straddle the chaise and sat behind her reaching to take the comb from her hand. He lifted her hair and gently started to pull the comb through it – using his fingers to untangle the knots. She closed her eyes and didn’t move. He worked silently until he pulled the comb smoothly through her damp hair. He set the comb on a low table and put his hands on her shoulders. She held herself stiffly, her face settling into angry lines. The air was charged with the electric tension of unspoken words. She jumped up, pulling the dressing gown tightly around her and whirled to face him, blue eyes flashing. 

‘You had to shoot him,’ her voice was low and dangerous with accusations, ‘he was already dying – but he had to suffer your bullet too.’ He remained seated and did not answer his dark eyes on hers.

Is it finished now?’ she demanded, stepping toward him gripping his shirt and pulling him to stand, ‘must Athos die too for you to be satisfied?’ He stood silently, watching her. 

‘Answer me!’ she shouted at him and slapped his face – hard. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He narrowed his eyes, tightening his mouth, lifting his hand to touch his bleeding lip.

‘Does everyone need to die for you?’ She slapped him again – his head rocked but he stood firm, not taking his eyes from hers. She slapped him again, tears welling in her eyes, and slapped him again, stumbling and gripping his shirt to steady herself - the wretchedness of the day descending over her - overwhelming and final. He kept his arms at his side, aching to catch her in his arms, but he waited and watched her.

‘Lucien,’ a soft sob caught in her throat - she raised her hand to hit him again and dropped it against his chest, tears trickling down her face. She was exhausted from her anger and misery flooded her. She needed solace and safety and she turned to the man responsible for her grief and her tears. He took her in his arms and she buried her face into his chest. He leaned down to put his arm under her legs and lifted her, carrying her to the bed. He sat with his back against the stacked pillows and held her against him as her sobs racked her body and soaked his shirt. 

He had known, as soon as he pulled the trigger, the devastation he would cause, the course upon which they both would be set and the irrevocable outcome. He had come to face what he had done, to hold what he had lost, and to soothe what he had destroyed.

She quieted and lay silently against him. There would be no more questions, reasons, accusations or excuses - all that was past them now. She lifted her tear ravaged face to his and he let his eyes wander across her face tracing his fingers over the line of her jaw and soft lips watching the lights in her blue eyes dim with sorrow. He laid his hand against her cheek. She turned her face to kiss his palm and raised her lips to his.

Had it always been their destiny to have this night together? He closed his mind to the beat of time and abandoned his resistance for her touch, her scent, the feel of her smooth skin under his fingers – her body trembling under his hands, the awareness of her lasered into him. She would weaken his resolve and yet he yearned to use his strength to be the fortress against her pain and suffering. Hunger slashed through him, he ached to possess and command – but her gentle hands soothed him, lips sweet on his skin, drawing him closer, warm, gentle, her love cocooning him – he sensed its formidable strength– a valkyrie challenge to what smoldered deep inside him and cooled its unforgiving heat. He crushed her to him, whispering her name, impassioned and penitent - her fingers tangled in his hair.

He rolled to his back taking her with him, her heart beating against his chest, silky hair covering his arm. He was peaceful and sated in a warm haze, her fingers stroking his chest. He drifted into a dreaming sleep. Remembrances of them unspooled in a series of images - alive with sounds of her laughing voice, scents of her warm skin, the soaps and cream she favored, blue iridescent eyes and rose lips. He remembered an evening...

... _at Mme Villiers’ salon – a lively glittering evening – crystalline sounds of clinking glasses, laughter and conversations. They had danced together. He was drawn toward a small salon where a musician played a violin – a dulcet poignant sound drifting in the air and pouring out into the night. He had been leaning against the frame of a door opened to the balcony. She had come up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head against his back. He held her arms to him as they stood and listened. He had turned to her, taking her hands and gently leading her into the shadows, the music swirling and flowing around and between them – a melody of such sweetness, a language of love and joining. He held her in his arms – in perfect communion – the silken link that had thrummed between them over time and distance revealed – a perfect mystery offered up to them by the heavens._

As he watched these images - they shattered into a multitude of fragments and fell to his feet – piling up around him like great sparkling drifts of broken glass. Soon, he would be unable to free himself, to stride away – forever rooted and buried in the debris of his life.

He sat in the chair by the bed watching her sleep, her dark hair fanned across the pillows, golden threads shimmering in the moonlight, her bare legs tangled in the sheets. He leaned forward studying her face, the curve of her cheek, shape of her brow and soft lips. When he breathed his last he wanted to remember this moment. From their first time together - four years ago - he had thought they had time - all the time in their future to build a life together. How had he misjudged it so wrongly.

They had come so close to their dream – he could see her – his spirited impetuous girl fleeing her pursuers, running toward him as he frantically drove his horse to her, leaning far to reach her. She was laughing – they would risk one mad desperate act – she would leap to him and he would grasp her arm swing her up behind him and they would race for safety and their freedom. They had, as children, escaped many times – he held tight to her hand as they fled to the woods, climbed into the towers, or hid in the caves. But not this time.

He stood and went to the window, fully dressed, muskets loaded, daggers and sword sheathed. He felt the familiar heat of war uncoiling, and he let it rise - a huge angry wave roaring through him obliterating gentler sentiments in its path, its singing voice screeching and groaning in his mind. Twisting rage infiltrated his battle-hardened muscles, he flexed his long fingers and looked at his large strong calloused hands, used so recently in tender caresses of intimacy, now ready to crush and destroy. The golden lights in his eyes darkened and retreated, his face tightened to stony planes. It occurred to him, should he defeat his enemy and survive the day – that this would be his permanent state – there could be no other.

His senses heightened, he watched the street below, movements in the shadows, alert to the danger that lurked there. Men watched the house and waited for him - but he knew where they hid. He would have no difficulty slipping past them.

He was alone now – some of the others dead, some had run away and the rest he had left behind. It was better this way as it had never been about anything else. He understood what he had to do, and he knew the man he sought would come. From the moment they had stared at the other across a bloody battlefield – their destiny was to finish it – together.


	29. “If you want a happy ending, that depends of course, on where you stop your story….”(Orson Wells)

Alice laughed. ‘There’s no use trying,’ she said: ‘one can’t believe impossible things.’  
‘I daresay you haven’t had much practice,’ said the Queen. ‘When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” (Lewis Carroll)

>>>>

The blade bit into his arm and there was a rush of pain and blood dribbled down his arm. He charged toward Grimaud and thrust his sword forward narrowly missing him as the man leaned smoothly away from the blade. Grimaud laughed softly, his lip curling into a snarl. The clash of steel reverberated in the chamber, men grunting as they lunged and battled, the smell of their sweat and rage hovering in the air around them. Something else swirled in that chamber, a dark malevolence flowing from each man winding seductively between, around and through them, its cackling song alive in their senses, driving them as they tried to murder each other. Athos could hear Grimaud’s voice in his head – _come to me – we die alone in hell._

Suddenly Grimaud was close enough to hit him squarely in the face, and again in the gut doubling him over. He was yanked upright and hit again in the face. Athos staggered back dropping his sword onto the ledge where it tipped into the still water. He grabbed for Grimaud with both hands and the two men crashed into the pool, struggled to stand and straining to find a hold on the other. Grimaud was first to his feet, gripping Athos’ tunic, baring his teeth with the effort and hauling him to his feet with one hand, swinging his arm and landing a solid strike to the Athos’ jaw. Athos grunted, his head snapped back – Grimaud, still holding him upright, hit him again. Athos reeled from the succession of blows but managed to grab Grimaud’s wrist as he swung toward him again. He pushed against him, losing his balance and falling backward, dragging Grimaud with him. His fingers scrabbled for his sword on the bottom of the pond - he was dizzy and disoriented. Grimaud was above him and had found his throat squeezing and crushing and holding him under water. He couldn’t breathe. His fingers touched his sword.

It occurred to him that Grammont might have been right. He would die here. Grimaud would kill him. He hadn’t given the Chevalier’s warning much credit. He had fought with Grimaud once before and although he was bested, he thought it due to being caught unawares, not overwhelmed by the ferocity of the man, his size, his speed. The legends and stories of Grimaud’s fighting abilities were not exaggerated. How arrogant of him, he almost laughed to himself. Sophia would have plenty to say to him about his pride and conceit.

Suddenly, Grimaud loosened his death hold on his neck – enough for Athos to yank the hands from his throat and shove himself away. He got his feet under him and pushed himself upward, sucking huge gulps of air as his head broke the water. Gasping and choking he lunged for the ledge bracing himself with his arms to keep himself from falling to his knees. He half turned seeking his enemy. The man stood, a few feet away facing him. Athos pushed himself to his feet, watching Grimaud warily. The two men stared at each other, breathing hard.

Lucien straightened, and with a short laugh he shook water from his head, wiped water from his face, ‘you have taken everything from me,’ he muttered barely audible. He seemed to be talking to himself rather than Athos.

‘Come and kill me if that will finish it.’ He looked up and around the chamber as though wondering where he was or how he had gotten there. He reached down to his feet pulling up his sword and tossed it casually from him. It skittered across the stone floor.

Athos stared at Grimaud. His blood was on fire and fury coursed through him – his head pounding with uncontrollable rage – he hated this man - he didn’t care about his reasons! He roared and sprang toward Grimaud, throwing his full weight against him and both men fell back into the water. Athos started to close his hands around Grimaud’s neck and push him under the water when Grimaud suddenly turned his head sharply toward the tunnels… his head disappearing under the water as Athos held him there…he slid his eyes toward the tunnels…. 

> >>

D’Artagnan rushed down the passageway toward the sounds of the fight. The farther he went the dimmer the light. His torch illuminated a circle surrounding him, leaving the corridors mostly in dark shadows. He rounded the corner into a chamber and raised the torch.

Water in a shallow pool shimmered in the torchlight darkening beyond the borders of the light to deep shadows in the corners and against the stone walls. A body lay on the stone ledge blood dripping down the face of the short stone wall, pooling on the floor. Athos emerged from the gloom of the shadows holding his arm, limping badly as he moved steadily forward.

‘It’s finished,’ he grimaced at the pain. ‘Get me out of here.’ He reached for D’Artagnan to steady himself. The younger man threw his arm around him for support and the two men walked slowly back to the entrance. They passed the barrels and now extinguished fuses. Athos glanced at the stacks against the pillars.

‘You got them all?’ he asked. D’Artagnan nodded, carefully maneuvering the injured man through the darkened hallways.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but it was…odd.’ Athos looked askance at him – brow furrowed.

‘The fuses were lit, but some were cut, and the barrels were empty,’ said D’Artagnan. ‘No more than a few musket balls of powder in most of them. It would have created a diversion – but that’s all.’ The two men exchanged glances but neither spoke.

‘Perhaps,’ said D’Artagnan, ‘he only wanted to fight – to fight you.’ Athos’ eyes flickered briefly to his and then away. He did not reply.

>>>

The cathedral was filling, the acolytes placing incense in the thurible to swing high over the congregation. Priests were hovering around the altar preparing for the service. Nobles, wealthy merchants and ministers filled the seated areas and the common people milled about in the back and along the sides of the church. All were awaiting the service and the Queen’s remarks to the citizens of Paris.

Four Musketeers stood in the square waiting for the men from the morgue to remove the body. A few people were still filing past them into the church, turning curiously to look at the wagon and the man holding the horse and waiting.

‘It’s over,’ D’Artagnan had said tersely when he and Athos emerged from the underbelly of the church. ‘The evil bastard is dead - justice is done.’

Athos leaned against the church to steady himself. He was exhausted, his entire body ached, and he had injuries that probably needed some attention. It would have to wait.

Porthos stood, hands on hips next to Aramis, ‘how did he die?’ the big man asked Athos quietly. Years ago he had sparred with Grimaud – when Lucien was young and raw – and barely to a draw before Treville stopped it. He had breathed with relief when Athos came through the door.

‘Drowned,’ supplied D’Artagnan – his voice tinged with irony. ‘Just as Athos told the woman in Eparcy.’ Athos turned to him frowning, his eyes questioning.

‘You told the woman that she and his mother should have drowned him at birth,’ said D’Artagnan. ‘You did it for her,’ he gave a short mirthless laugh which faded quickly, and he did not see the regret and guilt that flashed in Athos’ dark eyes.

D’Artagnan was thinking about the empty barrels and the fuses going…nowhere. Impatiently – he gave a short shake of his head – it didn’t matter. Maybe the man had not had any gunpowder. He was dead – that was enough

Aramis pursed his lips and did not look at Athos – cruel words for a woman to hear about a man – a child she had tried to care for as best she could - and failed. She might have mourned for him at some time. Porthos was silent and moved toward the church door, Athos and D’Artagnan following him. They paused to wait for Aramis.

‘In a moment,’ the Musketeer said and continued to watch the doors leading into the tunnels. The doors were opening.

He waited, standing in the deserted square watching as two men emerged from the tunnels carrying a body covered with a bloody shroud. They lay the body into the bed of the battered and weathered wagon. One man climbed into the back and the others onto the seat flicking the reins at the tired horse. The wagon tilted and clattered over the cobbled road. He watched it until it came to the end of the street, turned and disappeared from his view.

Aramis remained standing staring down the empty street. He looked up at the late afternoon sun – its light blunted by wispy cloud cover. Stone figures hovered at the edges of the church roof, their faces frozen into fearful expressions - wardens against evil. They stared down at him - seemingly puzzled at the antics of humans and amused at what passed as evil. Sadness enveloped him and he raked a calloused hand through his hair. When time had passed, and these events reviewed – it would be hard to claim victory over evil. This was not a story of evil and there was no justice served – for either the living or the dead. He did not believe they had faced evil – rather - only a man destroyed by losing the love on which he depended – not evil – but desperation and hopelessness as he failed.  


It had only been a love story – of two people from different worlds with many odds arrayed against them – they had held their miracle in their hands and watched it turn to dust, trickling through their fingers to blow away in a gentle breeze. He had not grasped her hand in time – they had not raced to safety and their freedom. He turned to enter the church – to pray for the dead and living. 

>>>

The four men entered the tavern separately. Athos arrived first and chose a table at the back of the room. A serving girl brought wine and glasses. It was late in the night and the crowd had thinned in number and the raucous noise found in any tavern diminished. His eyes were gritty with fatigue, his arm throbbing with pain but the ache in his heart was far greater – and impossible to ignore.

D’Artagnan and Porthos arrived together and walked through the room, nodding to him and sitting down. Porthos poured wine and they drank. Aramis was the last, threading his way among the tables – seemingly reluctant to arrive at his destination. He sat and turned his chair to the side – his profile to the others. He removed his hat. They waited.

Athos looked at each man. He felt a sad weight in his chest - in a few days, they would each be on a separate path- unknown when they would all be together again or how it would be between them. They had been inseparable for a long time – reunion seemed unpredictable as a sequel to what they had known together. But now, he needed to talk to them. She had been his responsibility and his alone and he would bear the consequences. There was another story to be told – he started to speak.

When he was finished, the three men were silent staring either at the floor, or the table, or into the crowd of the tavern – their eyes hooded and masking their emotions. No one asked a question, there were no accusations or blame. Porthos was the first to stand. Athos looked up at him – the big man laid a hand on his shoulder, nodded and moved off. D’Artagnan was staring at Athos, frowning slightly. He made a fist of his hand and thumped it on the table – he looked again at Athos who met his gaze steadily. He shrugged and without a word stood and followed Porthos. Aramis stayed seated and watched Porthos and D’Artagnan. He saw Porthos clap a hand on D’Artagnan’s back, steering him out the door – already bending to him and speaking in low tones.

Aramis picked up his wine glass and raised it to Athos nodding, ‘it was right.’ Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement and they sat in silence.

‘You are leaving soon?’ Aramis asked. Athos nodded, ‘a couple days.’

‘A few days ago, Sophia told me – I should add with absolute certainty,’ they both smiled at the recollection of her familiar resolute stance – arms crossed over her chest, blue eyes blazing, ‘that you would be back – you would do what your honor required – and then you would be back.’

He looked at Athos, ‘did she know your mind brother?’ he asked, ‘for my sake, I hope she did.’ Athos chuckled and closed his hand over Aramis’ hand. ‘We will see each other again.’ He did not elaborate. Aramis stood, settled his hat on his head, nodded to him and walked away.

Athos sat alone at the table swirling the wine in his glass thinking over what he had told them. He looked around the room noticing cadets in quiet groups, occasionally glancing towards him. He did not make eye contact – he did not welcome anyone’s company tonight. His eyes traveled to an occupant at a table close to the door.

Anne sat alone, watching him. He breathed in - surprised and suddenly overwhelmed at her presence. She had come - with empathetic eyes and a rueful smile on her beautiful mouth. He held her gaze – suddenly grateful she was here and oddly - comforted. There was no one who knew him better or would understand him. She knew the truth of what had happened in the passageways under the church….

> >>

…Athos started to close his hands around Grimaud’s neck and push him under the water when Grimaud suddenly turned his head sharply toward the tunnels… Athos slid his eyes in that direction…

Sophia was standing at the entrance to the tunnels a musket in each hand.

‘I should shoot both of you,’ her voice low and her blue eyes glittering – shards of blue ice raking their faces. ‘Shall I be your judge and jury?’

Athos released his grip on Grimaud and stepped back. Lucien rose unsteadily from the water gulping air and coughing as he got to his feet. Both men stood, breathing heavily – staring at her in disbelief, taking in the muskets, her air of determination and rock-steady hands. Grimaud pushed through the water to the ledge, stepping over it and facing her.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ he ran his fingers through his hair – water streaming down his neck, shoulders and chest. Athos could feel his sword under his foot, he bent his knees - fingers scrabbling to pick it up, his eyes on Lucien’s back.

‘What are you doing Lucien,’ she retorted – but it was not really a question. ‘You have surrendered to the worst in you! It has made you mad for vengeance and punishment - this is what your hate has does to us.’ 

Lucien stared at her slowly shaking his head, ‘no,’ he said angrily, ‘I saw you dead Sophia.’

‘I was not dead. I was not buried,’ she replied angrily. ‘But you ran away to sea and buried yourself in war and violence! You lost yourself in hell.’

‘I will never forgive them!’ Lucien snarled, furious at her challenge to him, a dark menacing presence. ‘They took everything away from us!’ He did not name Treville – he didn’t have to.

‘It was for me to forgive – not you!’ she shouted – she was not afraid of him. ‘They were not blameless – they should not have stood between us and their abasement of you was cruel and wrong. But it would never have kept us apart – you have kept us apart!’

Athos was wading slowly to the edge of the pool, holding the sword behind him. She turned angrily to him.

‘What is it you abhor Athos – what lies do you tell yourself?’ she glared at Athos ‘that this is for Treville? You hated Lucien long before now – and here he is - unarmed, relinquished the fight – and all you want is to drive your sword through his back.’

‘Where is your honor now Athos?’ she curled her lip in disgust. He stared back at her – neither giving way.

‘What did you see Athos – when you saw him across the battlefield?’ she ignored Lucien, focusing her charged gaze at Athos, ‘did you see an enemy? Or a reflection of your violence? You will not exorcise what breathes and burns inside you by killing him – you cannot be so blind Athos.’

He waved his hand in a vague movement of dismissal, ‘you should not be here.’ But she was here – and he felt the heat of her determination spreading towards him – she would not back down – she was not afraid of them.

No one moved. For a moment, it was quiet in the passageways under the church – silent stone statues in the chambers above posed in moments of prayer or repentance - saints and sinners together - holding their breath waiting for the outcome of this dangerous confrontation.

‘Both of you are loved so well,’ she shook her head at them, ‘but hate fills your hearts – it has murdered all welfare of the love you receive. There is no room for me – or anyone who loves you.’

The men stood silent, watching her, the water lapping gently around their legs, the light of the torches casting strangely shaped shadows on the walls and floor. Lucien seemed distracted, ignoring Athos - standing behind him and holding a sword to his back – or perhaps he had forgotten the Musketeer was also in the chamber or for what purpose any of them were there.

She looked at the two men, imploring them, ‘when one of you kills the other – you will murder me too. Do you not see that?’ she asked softly.

Athos realized that Grimaud was moving – very slowly. He had not taken his eyes from Sophia – but he had seen something in her look and the alarm he felt radiated towards Athos. His eyes flickered to hers. Fear pricked at the back of his neck.

Lucien stepped towards her, his hands raised palms up, ‘Rabbit,’ he murmured, ‘give me the guns.’

‘Sister Agatha told me I was not afraid of anything,’ she was looking at Athos, as though continuing a conversation with him, ‘but she was wrong.’  
‘I am not afraid to die here – if that is what is required to stop you.’

Her eyes shifted to Lucien whispering, ‘I am only afraid to walk this earth alone - without you,’ a small sob caught in her throat and tears glistened in her blue eyes. ‘I do not know how to let you go.’

Lucien was still moving toward her, slowly and shaking his head, his arm outstretched toward her. ‘You will not be alone,’ he answered gently. ‘You are loved Sophia – you will never be alone again – I swear it.’

She did not reply – her face resolved into firm angles of determination. Athos knew that look – he had seen it before – she had stalked and killed a man who had hurt her, cut his throat and watched him bleed to death. When confronted with four soldiers she feared meant violence to her, she would have died before allowing them to abuse her. He had asked her to trust him.

Understanding broke through the blood-crazed haze in his mind – he stood straighter and watched her and Grimaud. What would the man do? What would he do?

‘Give me the guns my love,’ Lucien said firmly – a command – not a request, ‘you will swear to leave now and not involve yourself any further - you will bring no harm to yourself.’

‘I cannot,’ she said softly. Lucien twisted his mouth in frustration.

She looked again at Athos, their eyes locking – ‘do you trust me?’ she asked him.

‘Love Athos – above everything - for all the love we bear for each other,’ she said gently, her blue eyes shimmering in the torchlight, ‘you will do this …you will trust me.’

He imagined her cool fingers smoothing the furrow cleaving his forehead, an absolving kiss to his cheek to assuage the pounding in his head. He stared at her, anguish and confusion filling his mind – _please – do not ask me – I cannot_ \- he pleaded silently with her. He gripped his sword and slowly moved closer to Lucien and raised it.

She started turning a musket ….

Her blue iridescent eyes looked into Lucien’s dark scowling face and disbelieving eyes - his chest tightened at the unconditional love reflected in their twin pools the color of an ocean he once sailed and…something else - fearless strength and hard resolve drilling deep into him to challenge what gripped and ruled him. Soft tears were trickling down her face – but her resolve was absolute. He caught his breath and raised a warning hand to stop her.

 

‘I love you,’ she whispered to him. Desperate - Lucien exploded into action - lunging and grabbing for her hand - for the gun – for whatever he could do to stop her, ‘Sophie! No!’

Athos roared and brought down his sword and a musket exploded as she pulled the trigger….

>>>  
He threw back the rest of the wine and set the empty glass on the table. He settled his hat on his head, shoved back the chair and stood to leave the tavern. When he got to the door Anne was standing there. He closed his fingers around her waiting hand and they walked into the night together.


	30. The thread you follow...

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among  
things that change. But it doesn’t change.  
People wonder about what you are pursuing.  
You have to explain about the thread.  
But it is hard for others to see.  
While you hold it you can’t get lost.  
Tragedies happen; people get hurt  
or die; and you suffer and get old.  
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.  
You don’t ever let go of the thread. (William Stafford,The Way It Is)

> >>

Pain and low rumbling sounds. Dim light- wavering blurred images - sound and light came together. It was a voice, someone was talking. His head was raised and he tasted water. He drank thirstily, trying to identify the voice, opening his eyes a little more, dark hazel eyes flecked with gold, to bring the face into focus.  


‘Welcome back,’ said Milady de Winter. His head rolled slightly on the pillow, his eyes searching. He knew this room.

‘Sophia,’ he whispered and was stopped by a sudden fit of coughing. A vision loomed of her holding a gun to her chest – to her heart. He looked anxiously at Milady and tried to get up. She held him back gently.

‘She is fine Lucien. She is here, in the kitchen mixing poultices and teas and heaven knows what other foul-smelling remedies and driving the kitchen maid crazy with her instructions and demands.’ He fell back onto the pillows tears welling at the back of his eyes with relief.

‘She shot me,’ he rasped. Milady laughed and dipped a cloth in cool water wringing it out. ‘Oh that,’ she waved her hand dismissively. ‘She probably should have shot you weeks ago,’ she remarked and laid the cool cloth on his forehead.

‘Besides, she shot to the side. Plenty of blood, little real damage,’ Milady was unsympathetic. ‘Don’t be such a baby.’

He closed his eyes, smiling weakly, ‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmured wryly, raising a hand and wincing in pain. He touched the back of his head tenderly. ‘Did she hit me too?’

‘No – Athos did that – you are such a stallion she was afraid you would leap up after being shot.’

‘I’ll bet he enjoyed it,’ grumbled Lucien. Milady de Winter smiled. ‘I think he did.’

‘Did she shoot Athos too?’ he asked. He couldn’t remember anything - only the musket she held to herself. He had thought his own heart would stop from fear of what she might do. 

Milady chuckled and shook her head, ‘she didn’t have to,’ she replied. ‘I believe he understood her intent.’ He closed his eyes wearily. 

‘So…. I died,’ he said. 

She nodded, ‘yes – it’s over - no one will come looking for you. He frowned, unsure of how to take this news.

‘Look on the bright side,’ she added, ‘think of how useful you can be to the Crown when you are dead. Many possibilities for a career in espionage – you know you look like a Turk - could be handy for spying on our allies. Don’t be surprised if the Queen comes calling,’ she advised.

The door opened, and Henri entered. He was carrying a tray laden with covered dishes of food. The pirate Chevalier Michel d’ Grammont was behind him. Henri set the tray on a table close to the bed.

‘How’s our dead man?’ the Chevalier quipped smiling at Lucien who shook his head and held up his hand. Henri grasped it – firmly. The two men exchanged looks and Lucien nodded.

‘Alive and well,’ quipped Milady, ‘but, as you see no sense of humor yet.’ Milady stood up, ‘I have a very important appointment,’ she announced, ‘I shall leave you in Michel’s good company.’ She smiled at the pirate who was looking at her with lowered eyes, glittering and appraising, ‘behave yourselves gentlemen.’ 

Grammont watched her as she walked from the room and sighed heavily. ‘I don’t have much time for you,’ he told Lucien. ‘There is a beautiful lady in need of diamonds. I must hasten to acquire them for her.’

Lucien chuckled and winced at the sharp pain in his side, ‘you look positively smitten Grammont.’

‘More than that I fear,’ the pirate nobleman shook his head sheepishly, ‘she has me happily beguiled! I entreat her to annul her marriage to that dreadful humorless man and make her my Chevaleresse, install her in the ancestral pile and make little chevaliers for me.’

‘I cannot imagine how she can resist such an offer,’ grunted Lucien drily. ‘As you say,’ agreed the besotted pirate - oblivious to irony.

The Chevalier placed more pillows behind Lucien. ‘I have orders from Sophia to see that you eat this,’ he lifted a bowl from the tray and handed it to Lucien, ‘I dare not go back with the bowl still full. She might shoot me too.’

‘Can you manage?’ he asked him, placing the bowl in his hands. Lucien nodded and tentatively placed a spoonful in his mouth. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured, ‘it’s good.’  


‘Henri’s soup. He will make someone a good wife someday,’ laughed the pirate. 

The two men sat in silence while Lucien ate. Grammont watched and waited patiently. After a few minutes Lucien stopped and lay his head back on the pillows. Grammont took the bowl from his hands.

‘I understand Lorraine betrayed Gascon – made a deal with the King,’ said Grammont. Lucien nodded. ‘Lorraine has always been a grasping little pig-eyed man. My father thought him an utter bore and without any manners.’ The Duke’s deficiencies in the social niceties of the aristocracy were justification enough for his demise. 

‘His death only brings a temporary reprieve,’ said the Chevalier. ‘Forces unhappy with the Crown will combine again – it may be well to have a life away from it.’  


‘It wasn’t my interest,’ said Lucien absently. ‘That much was clear,’ said Grammont.

‘I didn’t have to shoot Treville,’ Lucien said softly. He had hesitated – he had seen Treville shot – knew he was already dead. Gascon betrayed and Lorraine dead. The plot to overthrow the King also dead. 

He could have walked away – from all of it. The men fighting were not his. He had no stake in the political outcome. There might have been hope for him and Sophia. But the demon grumbled and shrieked and then he was lifting his musket and shooting Treville – and he knew that he would have to face Athos and whoever died - his life with Sophia was over – forever.

‘There’s no going back,’ he said. ‘It might have been better to let Athos kill me.’

‘I’m sure she thought about that,’ Grammont was matter-of-fact, stroking his moustache. ‘So, I conclude that she must believe otherwise. Perhaps she has decided to trust her love for you more than you do for her.’ Lucien shifted his eyes to look at Grammont, frowning. 

‘How can she forgive me?’ Lucien shook his head. ‘Every time she looks at me she will think of it. I should leave – let her make a new life. Go back to sea. The war still rages.’

‘Yes! By all means – run away to sea again!’ exclaimed the Chevalier, ‘that worked out so well the first time. She may commandeer le Clerc’s ship, hunt you down and blow you out of the water herself.’ 

He leaned forward toward Lucien waving a finger in his face, ‘stop deciding for her. If she wants you to leave, if she cannot forgive – she will tell you. Until then, be man enough to stay with her and this time - fight for what you really want.’

>>>

The page stood aside for Milady de Winter to sweep into the office. The Queen sat at her desk dipping the quill into the ink and continued to write. She did not look up.

‘You work for me now,’ her Majesty intoned. Finished, she blotted the paper, checked it again and handed it to Milady. She looked at the name on the paper and gave a short mirthless chuckle, pocketing the paper.

The Queen set a bag of coin on the desk. ‘Your payment.’ Milady did not move to pick up the bag.

‘I had something additional in mind,’ she said smiling. The Queen frowned. She had no intention of negotiating with this creature. She looked at her newly acquired assassin with distaste. 

‘What do you want?’ she said archly.

‘Your signature on these,’ said Milady drawing a leather scroll cover from within the folds of her cape, removing the scroll and placed it on the desk. The Queen unrolled the documents and scanned them quickly. 

‘What is this?’ she asked, voice rising in disbelief. ‘After all that has occurred? You expect me to agree to this?’

‘I believe valuable services have been rendered to the Crown and its treasury – for a long time. It has been done before,’ Milady shrugged. Grammont had drawn up the documents and counseled her on how to approach the Queen, ‘be sweet my sweet,’ he advised her, ‘and if that fails we go to the real power – the Exchequer. I can always remind M Colbert of my service and how bored I might get in the very near future.’

The Queen was silent and then said, ‘Treville….’ Her voice trailed away.

Milady sighed, ‘he was an honorable man – but in this – he was wrong.’ She paused, ‘I think he came to realize that – towards the end. Bu the plots of Gascon and Lorraine, the threat of Lorraine’s army - events overtook him and there was no time to effect a different outcome.’

The Queen nodded sadly, ‘I would have to agree.’ She looked up at the dark-haired woman watching her closely. ‘I didn’t take you for a romantic,’ she said dipping her quill daintily into the ink-pot.

Milady’s green eyes glittered in amusement. She held her finger to her lips, leaning towards the Queen and lowering her voice in conspiracy, ‘Shh - don’t tell anyone.’

>>>

‘Where are you going?’ Anne asked Henri. He was loading trunks into a wagon. He dipped his shoulder to drop the trunk he was balancing on it into the wagon bed. He turned to her, an affable grin on his face and a twinkle in his brown eyes.

‘A new garden,’ he announced. ‘I’m going to the estate as steward.’ He would miss the waterfront and the work in the harbors, but the lure of the land and managing the farms were too enticing. He now had an entire estate in which to sink his hands into its soil.

‘Well that is damned inconvenient,’ she groused. ‘Who am I to have here?  
’  


He laughed, ‘the Chevalier is completely besotted with you! Even now he is going to stalk the waters off Africa for ships carrying diamonds and rubies to woo you. He is declaiming poetry he writes for you from his quarterdeck. His sailors threaten to mutiny!’

She laughed, ‘the dear man,’ she murmured fluttering her lashes coquettishly and stroking her new diamond earring pendants.

‘Paul will be here – he’s going to manage the warehouses while Lucien is away,’ he chucked her under the chin, ‘treat him gently my beauty, he’s a handsome virile man – but tender in the heart. A little too smitten with you I think for his own good.’

‘Mmmm,’ she murmured, green eyes winking in consideration of the young man, ‘I might be able to make something of him.’ Henri laughed again. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘The fresh air would be good for you.’

She rolled her eyes at him, ‘oh yes – I can see me now - milking a cow – really Henri,’ and whacked his chest with a scroll case. She handed the case to him,  


‘Give this to them.’ He looked at it curiously, ‘what is it?’

She smiled mysteriously, ‘their future.’

He watched her walk away, the alluring sway of her hips and the tilt of her head - elegant and graceful. Men stepped out of her way, turned to watch her, little sighs escaping their lips. He smiled - he would see her again.

>>>

He came awake slowly. She was standing by the window staring out into the night. He angled an arm under his head to see her better. It was a full moon, its shimmering light washing over her pale skin, her dark hair cascading down her back. His chest tightened – what she had risked for him. He suddenly saw an image of a burned and devastated landscape littered with bodies of the dead for which he was responsible – what he had wrought with his hate and his demon.  


What was it the Musketeer priest had asked him – what would Gatien want for those he loved? Gatien – a man – a Musketeer - who had saved his life and given him a new one, shared his friendship and showed him the meaning of brotherhood. Gatien had died as a result of betrayal – and yet he knew with absolute certainty that Gatien had chosen, as he breathed his last, to remember those he loved – not those he hated. He closed his eyes, feeling tears forming. He had never mourned for Gatien – he had never allowed himself to acknowledge his love.

His eyes shifted again to her - overwhelmed with relief and gratitude that she was standing before him. He was suddenly gripped with a powerful sensation - it pinned him to the bed with its strength and demand for his attention. Forgiveness – he needed to ask and to do what was necessary. He needed to give.  


He swung his legs to the side of the bed. Every muscle in his body protested, but he stood, swayed slightly as his legs steadied to support him. He walked carefully to the windows and put his arms around her. Her nightdress was thin and he could feel the coolness of her body, ‘mmm,’ he murmured, ‘you are cold. Come back to bed.’

She leaned back against him cocooned in his embrace. He kissed her neck and shoulder and she turned, putting her arms around his waist and laid her head against his warm chest. They stood silently for a long moment.

‘Will you be able to forgive me?’ he asked quietly. Treville’s death rested heavily on her heart. The waste that had been laid to their lives – they would need to find a path toward understanding and reconciliation.

‘Yes – in time,’ she answered, softly. She stroked his chest and he reached for her hand, twining her fingers with his. ‘Will you be able to forgive yourself?’ she asked.

He breathed in deeply and stared over her head into the night, ‘in time,’ he answered. He had much to consider – and to answer for – would she would stay with him? 

‘Shall we go home?’ she asked. She smiled and lifted her eyes to his – shining in the moonlight. Home - three stories of gleaming white stone, a central courtyard with a fountain, its spray of water creating tiny rainbows in the sunlight, dark twin towers rising behind – remnants of her ancestral castle - built centuries before. Dark woods rose up at the edges of the park, a small lake sparking under the sun beyond.

‘We can go anywhere you like,’ she smiled, ‘I know a man who has a ship.’

He chuckled and rolled his lips together, ‘there is a place I would like to visit first,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I would like you to come with me.’

She lifted her head to look searchingly into his face wondering at the uncertainty in his voice, ‘Of course - where?’

He looked down at her, tracing a line on her cheek, watching the winking lights of her beautiful eyes. His throat tightened at how close he had come to losing her and this chance. 

‘Eparcy’

>>>

‘Monsieur d’Athos please,’ called out the messenger boy. ‘Monsieur d’Athos!’

Athos walked from his office to the balcony. He was sorting his belongings for the trip he was about to take - packing a few items and abandoning the rest. It was remarkable how little he cared to keep.

‘Here,’ he called. The boy ran up the stairs and handed him a wrapped package. Athos fished a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the boy.

‘Sir,’ said the boy happily and skipped down the stairs. Athos turned and walked back to the office and sat down in his chair, set the package on his desk and unwrapped it, turning it over. His chest tightened.

It was a small framed drawing – a young woman wading in the shallows of a lake, holding up her skirts, the hem of her white gossamer dress dragging through the water. Something or someone behind her had caught her attention and she had turned to look back over her shoulder. There must have been a breeze as her dark hair was drifting back from her face, curling and waving down her back. She had an enigmatic half-smile, the iridescence in her eyes winking in amusement. Her blouse had slipped down her arm, baring her shoulder and revealing the line of graceful symbols that trailed down her back. 

>>  
_…he lay Lucien’s still form on the ledge, blood leaking down the low stone wall and turned to her - go Sophie, D’Artagnan will be here soon. She tore her eyes from Lucien and looked at him. She reached up to hold his face between her two warm hands. She whispered to him – a leap of faith - love and forgiveness Athos - you can build a good life. She pressed her soft lips against his. His arms came up to encircle her and hold her to him - her heart drumming against his chest, her tears wet on his cheeks. He slipped his fingers through her hair and tilted her face back to look into her eyes – iridescent lights winking gently in the dying torchlight. He bent his head and kissed her – for what they were and for what they would never be to each other. I love you she breathed into him and slipped back into the shadows…_

>>

He studied the portrait and ran his finger over her smiling lips. He turned the drawing over. The initials LG were scrawled on the back. He studied the drawing again and re-wrapped it. He tucked it into his traveling trunk, on top of a pair of gloves and a silver locket. He closed the lid and locked the trunk. 

 

>>>>

Two years later...

 _Everything passes, but nothing entirely goes away_ ( Jenny Diski)

The Minister fidgeted nervously in his chair and watched the man reading the document, fascinated by the thick bushy eyebrows wriggling and jumping - as displeased at what they were reading as their master. Now these mobile brows snapped together in a dark thunderous line communicating the impending outburst of fury and disbelief.

‘He is dead? Are you joking?’ General Duquesne glanced at Captain D’Aumont - who shrugged. He knew the story, but he hadn’t been there. Otherwise, it would have gone differently. He knew the man’s value.

The General swung his stormy look to the small and slight man ‘how did this happen?’ The Minister raised a hand helplessly, ‘I understood it to be more a personal matter…something perhaps about a woman.’ Women could be counted on as the cause of trouble – blaming a woman was a safe retreat.

The General glared at him - thick fingers drumming the desk impatiently. He imagined those fingers drumming into his head instead.

The Minister shrank back in his chair, stammering, ‘I don’t really know the details…it was the official report,’ replied the finance officer. ‘But he lives,’ offered quickly, and kept his eyes on the drumming fingers.

The General rose from his chair, his massive body lifting into the air to a height normally associated with Olympic gods – now towering over the slight figure of the Minister.

‘I don’t give a damn whose skirts he lifted or if it were every king or queen in Europe!’ he hissed. ‘If he crooked his finger they probably skipped and danced their way into his bed! The military man turned to his captain, who was already standing anticipating his General’s order.

‘Find him!’ he thundered to Captain D’Aumont. ‘ _Find him…NOW!’_

 

>>>>

Eight years later…..

The man finished the stew and pushed the bowl away from him. He drank his ale and set the empty tankard on the table. The inn was quiet, only the low conversational voices of a few travelers, the fire crackling and warming the room. 

‘Would you like anything else sir?’ the innkeeper inquired, picking up the dishes and pausing by the table. The man shook his head and stood. He placed coins on the table. 

‘My horse?’ he inquired. ‘Ready for you sir,’ replied the innkeeper. The man nodded, picked up his saddlebags. 

‘Are you sure you won’t stay the night sir?’ the innkeeper inquired solicitously, ‘it is growing dark.’

The man smiled, ‘My home is not far. My wife is with child and I am anxious to see her and my daughters. I have been away too long.’ The innkeeper nodded and smiled too.

‘You are a lucky man sir. A boy this time I shall pray.’ They shook hands and the man went out into the early evening light.

Outside in the yard, the stableman was standing with his horse. ‘A beautiful animal,’ the stableman said, stroking the horse’s neck. ‘We don’t see these too often.’  


The man nodded, ‘He’s young and learning quickly. I still have his sire.’ For a few moments the men talked congenially of horses and breeding and where the mare had been located. The man thanked the stableman, pressing coins into his hand, and turned to mount his horse.

Suddenly the yard was filled with men on horseback, one leading a horse with a body draped over it.

‘A man’s been shot,’ one man exclaimed. ‘He needs a doctor!’ The men dismounted quickly and gently lifted the injured man from the horse, preparing to carry him into the inn.

The man hesitated and glanced toward the still form and frowned. He handed the reins to the stableman and looked more closely at the injured man and his wound. He turned to the others.

‘I believe I can help,’ he said, ordering the men, ‘take him inside.’ He went to his horse to remove a small bag from his saddle and followed them.  
Several hours later he was washing his hands, wiping them dry and studying his handiwork. He had extracted the bullet. The wound was clean, cauterized, stitched and bandaged firmly. The injured man was murmuring and waking. Perhaps it was time to leave.

The man stirred and opened his eyes studying the face of his savior. He closed his eyes and chuckled, ‘Lucien.’

Lucien Grimaud smiled, ‘Hello Athos.’ 

>>>

The End……for now…..


End file.
